In High School, if you can’t find a vacant house at which to party, you usually end up somewhere public; parks and apartment complexes are popular choices. Mediterranean Manors, aka M&M, happened to be both.  Technically, it was a Townhouse complex with a park in the center.  I had a friend who lived in this complex, so I discovered this gold mine when I was a sophomore in High School.  The following is an account of when our “Private Party” was interrupted by Johnny Law.  Better known as The Great Escape.

(Open these Maps to follow along: Escape Path and Aerial View)

On Christmas Eve during my senior year of High School (these kinda things happen only minutes after An Hour of Prayer for a Lifetime of Sin), some friends and I needed a place where we could smoke some California Tobacco hassle-free.  So, we met up at the trusty ol’ M&M Park.  At this time, Pergola and I were the only ones in High School; we also went to different High Schools.  The others were all home for the holidays from different colleges around the country.  We were meeting here to start our evening, and then figure out where to go next.  I drove my car with a couple passengers; my buddy Guy did the same.  There were 7 of us in total:  Guy, Burn’d, Big C, Pergola, Stever, Possible Narc (the only kid I didn’t previously know), and myself.  Like usual, we sat comfortably atop one of the picnic tables and passed around the study pipe.

Somewhere amidst the second rotation, Big C notifies me that he sees two cars approaching.  I’m currently facing the water, so I can’t see what’s behind me.  Big C’s tone of voice changes as he makes a subtle announcement…

Big C  “That second car is a cop.”
Stever  “So is the first one.”

Oh shit.  Two cops trolling through a neighborhood slowly?  Not good.  Instead of continuing along the road, both cars pull onto the grass and into the park area, slowly heading straight towards us.  All signs point to fucked.  I start walking towards the water with study pipe in hand; Pergola whispers to me…

Pergola  “You gonna run?”
Me  “You bet your ass.”
Pergola  “Then take this.”

Pergola hands me a half-pound of California Tobacco; I am a team player.  I toss the study pipe somewhere in the grass, put the Cali Tobacco in my jacket, and continue walking towards the water.  There is a 2-foot drop when it turns from grass to sand; I crouch down and slowly crawl behind this sand bank.  I’ve made it about 10 yards and start to think I am home free.  All of a sudden, a spotlight hits me.

Intercom Voice  “You in the tan, FREEZE!”

I jump up, freeze, and stare into the spotlight like a deer in headlights.  I have less than a second to make a life altering decision: either put my hands up and come clean, or bolt.  I have never run so fast in all my life.  As I sprint down the beach, I attempt to toss that half-pound into one of the canoes resting along the shore.  I make a sharp left as I see a flashlight wiz passed my head, followed by an even sharper right.  Remember my friend who I said lives in this complex?  Well, good thing he never locks his front door.  I dart into his house, up the stairs and into his room.  I’m panting, sweating, and smelling like a Phish concert.

Me  “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God…”
Friend  “What?  What’s wrong?”

We both hear sirens.

Friend  “Dear God.  What the fuck did you do?”

I explain the situation as I almost slip into a panic attack.  I wait until the siren noises fade, and then I call Big C.  No answer.  Next, I call Guy.  No answer.  Suddenly, as my buzz begins to fade, I realize that it’s a terrible idea to individually call each person who’s probably being questioned by the cops right now.  I call Guy’s sister instead and tell her to drive towards the neighborhood and tell me what’s going on.  Once she arrives, she calls me back.

Sis  “Well, there’s a cop at the entrance, other than that, it doesn’t seem too bad.  I’m turning the corner right now and… Holy fuck.”
Me  “Holy fuck?  What?  What do you see!?”
Sis  “There’s, one, two, three… seven cop cars.  Yep, there’s my dumbass brother talking to the cops.”
Me  “What else?”
Sis  “They are in 2 groups of three; each group is talking to different cops.”

Me  “That can’t be good.”
Sis  “No, it can’t.  Ok, I’m gonna take off, I think it looks weird if I just slowly keep driving around in circles.”
Me  “Right, thanks a lot.”
Sis  “Sure thing.”

At this point, I know I am definitely going to jail.  Christmas behind bars?  I just can’t stop making the family proud.  The probability of 6 people delivering a consistent alibi is practically impossible.  Also, as I previously mentioned, I did not know Possible Narc.  Although my friends are solid and trustworthy, most any High School kid will throw someone under the bus in half a second when it comes to saving their own ass, especially if they don’t know the person.  Since I’ve relived this story a million times, let’s switch to their point of view.

First off, when the two original cops started chasing me, the huskier one slipped in a ditch; Needless to say, he decided to stay behind.  His embarrassment turned to anger as he pulled out his glock and told my friends, “there’s 6 of you and I have more than 6 bullets.  Don’t be stupid.”  He then proceeded to call in aerial support (a helicopter) and give the pilot my description.

Husky Cop  “We have a hot foot pursuit!  Suspect is 5’7”, 140 lbs, and wearing a tan jacket.”

Apparently the Husky Cop was also blind, because although I was wearing a tan jacket, at the time (and now) I was 5’11”, 175 lbs.  The cop who was chasing me gave up after he assumed I hopped a wall and was now running through a neighboring shopping plaza.  As the helicopter hovered above with its spotlight on, each one of my friends, with the exception of Stever, was questioned separately before being grouped together.

An important thing to remember: all of these kids were lit up like a fucking Christmas tree while being interrogated by the police.  All of the questioning revolved around me; luckily my friends are intelligent, knew exactly how to play it.  They just kept telling the cops that I had approached them because I thought I had recognized them.  They said they had no idea who I was but that I had told them my name was Ryan.  The police continued to pace around scratching their heads while trying to piece together this mystery.

The real amazing thing is that not once did the cops accuse anyone (except Burn’d; they called him “Smokey”) or even notice that all of these suspects smelled like oregano and looked like they had just used chlorine eye drops; we were literally mid-toke as the cops ambushed us.  They did however keep questioning them about my car.  My friends just kept their cool and played dumb.  Apparently a pesky neighbor had recognized my car as a frequent park visitor and phoned in the complaint.  This did shed some light on as to why the cops where there in the first place.  Like I said, M&M had become a very popular party spot.  I can recall times when we would drop kegs there and/or have full on rowdy boxing matches with no police intervention.  So it seemed very peculiar for the cops to show up when we were very calmly and quietly enjoying nature’s botanical gift.

After about 45 minutes of fruitless interrogation, and after calling in absurd amounts of back up, the fuzz had no choice but to cut my friends loose.  This seemed too good to be true; of course it was.  Right as they are free to go, one of the cops discovers the half-pound.  Apparently my attempt to throw it into a canoe did not work out as planned.  He presents the package to my friends; this is when they really put on a show.

Officer Busted  “Can you explain this?”
Guy  “What is that?”

Guy, you are hilarious.

Officer Busted  “This is a giant bag of marijuana.”
Guy  “Oh my God, are you serious?  Get that away from me, that stuff’s illegal!”

Guy, you are ridiculous.

Officer Busted  “So you fellas really can’t explain this?”
Burn’d  “Holy cow!  I bet that kid (me) was trying to sell us drugs!”

Burn’d, you are hilarious.

Officer Busted  “Oh yeah?”
Burn’d  “Must be?  And when you guys showed up he got scared and ran!”

Burn’d, you are ridiculous.

At this point, no one knows for sure if the cops are actually buying any of this shit or if they are just trying to cut their loses; they have no solid evidence that incriminates any of these so-called suspects.  Although, finding a big bag of herb can’t be good for its owner (me).  This is point when Sis drove by and gave me the details via phone.  After being separated, both groups of 3 miraculously managed to continuously spit up the exact same alibi.  Finally after about 2 hours of some serious buzz killing, the majority of the cops leave and cut all of my friends loose.  Let’s switch back to my point of view.

I’m still hold-up in my friend’s place, shaking like a crack head and now wearing his clothes; Apparently I believed changing outfits would “save the day.”  If not obvious by now, I am a dumbass.  My phone rings; it’s Burn’d.

Burn’d  “Dude!”
Me  “Dude?”
Burn’d  “Dude.”
Me  “Dude?”
Burn’d  “We just left, it’s all good.”
Me  “What?  Are you fucking serious?”
Burn’d (laughing) “Yeah man, they let us go.”
Me (crying) “What the fuck?  How did that happen?”
Burn’d  “Long story.  Hey, they kept asking about your car.”
Me  “Yeah?”
Burn’d  “Yeah, so wait a while first, then call me when you get outta there.”
Me  “Ok, sounds good.  Where are you going?”
Burn’d  “To a different park, Pergola has more weed.”

Every once in a while, Johnny Law bends over and takes what he has coming to him.  A few months ago, I was unjustly issued a parking ticket by the City of Los Angeles Parking Violations Bureau; I submitted my appeal which I assumed they would have used as toilet paper or a coaster.  It must have been a clerical error, because somehow they decided to overturn the ruling and give me the victory.  The feeling is rather bittersweet though, because the same day I received this letter, I got another parking ticket; that ticket, however, was entirely my fault.  I truly am just a dumbass.  If you never read Fuck You, City of Los Angeles Parking Violations Bureau!, I recommend you do that first.

click to enlarge

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I bring to you some bad news.  A brave soldier, a God among men, a being so great that he was not even human, has passed on.  The Hero that was, and the Legend that is Master Golden Nugget aka “Nugs”.  At the tender age of 13 and 3 quarters, approximately 96 in human years, our old friend and confidant has moved on to his final resting place, better known as “Doggie Heaven.”  Now, if you are reading this eulogy, it is because in some way, direct or indirect, this unicorn-esque creature has touched your life.

It all started back in ‘95.  My folks made the mistake of taking my sister and I to a breeder’s house.  “I’ll walk him every day!”, “I’ll feed him and give him baths too!” were the lies that I shouted as we searched for the perfect pet.  Meanwhile, my dad stood nearby with a convincing head nod and smile.  It was hard for me to know back then that he was really thinking “Oh God, am I really gonna have to take care of this thing for 15 fucking years?”  Yes dad, you are.  So we had narrowed it down to 2 candidates, Nugget vs Stupid Ugly Dog that my sister wanted.  My mom was going to call for them, and the first one to run to her would then forever rank ahead of me on the Family Ladder of Importance.  Emotions were high as the dogs took off.  Stupid Ugly Dog made it to my mom in seconds, Nugget navigated his way to a shaded area and found it an appropriate place and time to take a nap.  I was devastated, but this was just a little hiccup.  Clearly, Stupid Ugly Dog would not be coming home with us, that’s not the way I would have it.  I ran over to Nugget and proclaimed my love for him loud enough for all to hear (I cried like a little bitch until my parents gave in and let me have him)!  Team Me/Nugget 1, Team Sister/Stupid Ugly Dog 0.

Once he found his new home, he fit right in.  Not unlike his owner (myself), he led a rigorous lifestyle of laying around, eating, watching TV, eating, occasionally peeing outside, eating, occasionally throwing up, eating, occasionally wetting the bed, eating (ok, so his lifestyle was identical to that of his owner).  He loved Nerf Wars (if you don’t know what a Nerf War is, try going back in time to your childhood and enjoying it) just as much as the next guy.  Teams were a bit lopsided when it was Jadidian, Rzymek, Cola (childhood friends) and myself vs. him, but he didn’t seem to mind.  He was a team player.  Well trained from the beginning, he would even bring his owner the remote control.  He might put a few bite marks in it first, run around the house several times, and insist that his owner chase him down and pry it from his gator-tight lockjaw grip, but he had good intentions.  The remote was for a pay-per-view black box that his family was using illegally anyways, so in a way, by destroying the remote, he was just fighting crime (go fuck yourself McGruff).

And let’s all tip our hats to the lad, 96?  Wow!  I never thought he’d make it passed his owner’s High School days.  My mom always jokes about the things that Nugget could probably tell her (which he wouldn’t, because of course he always followed the strict guy code of “bros before hos”), but his silence allowed so many great memories to be made.  If not for his code of ethics and cooperation, many of us would have been completely and utterly fucked, doggy style.  Whether he was witnessing a nervous 14 year old boy try to impress a bunch of girls by taking his first shot of Tequila, only to spit it all over the wall, the girls, and himself (this man graduated from an ivy league school and now works for a very high-powered consulting firm, go figure), or watching his owner find out the hard way that if you replace too much of the vodka in the freezer with water, it will in fact freeze, thus foiling the original plan of inconspicuous consumption (this man later graduated from a state university, maybe not ivy league, but definitely not community college), he never lost his cool.  Even when a tired (passed out) High School pal of his would steal his bed at night, would Nugget bark to wake him up?  No way.  Would he gnaw at his foot?  Hardly.  Instead, he would simply nestle up beside (on top of) him and gently lick his face (this man happens to be an up and coming Tulane Law student).  When his owner would repeatedly trip over him night after night while fidgeting around in the kitchen at 2 in the morning because of hunger which I’m sure was due to natural causes, would he bark or growl in rage?  Of course not!  In fact, he would join his owner in enjoying a taste of whatever masterpiece he had so gracefully (drunkenly) created.

Some 8 years ago, during a period better known as “The Sophomore Haze”, not only was Nugget a great friend to have, but he also doubled as a superb party host.  Greeting people at the door (sniffing their asses), entertaining (wagging his tail), showing off his talents (lapping up spilt beer), and if that wasn’t enough, if we ran out of cups, he would offer up his dog bowl in a split second (as long as he got first dibs)!  And man oh man was he a heart throb, while at the same time managing to remain humble as pie.  He would listen to girls drone on and on about how cute he was and how much they loved him (this particular girl is the only person to speak more human talk to Nugs than my mother, she now resides in Dunedin, Florida and goes to nursing school), even if all he actually wanted to do was lick his crotch and go to sleep.  He had a heart of gold.  It’s a miracle that he was always still eager (able) to wag his tail through the years, having had it slammed in the door multiple times by kids who were a little under the weather (too high to function).  Although at times, Nugs may have been equally as high, and I know that he, being a man of principle, would probably be the first to share the blame.

Even when his owner would sneak out, practically every night, not once did he bark.  Now some will claim this is because he barely ever barked, and ultimately lost the ability to bark, or that he would sleep more deeply than a college kid on New Year’s Eve, but this is not the case.  Nugget’s silence was for his owner’s safety.  He knew that if he made any noise and awoke anybody who really didn’t need to be awaken, that his owner would in fact catch a vicious grounding.  When his owner returned home one night, too tired (inebriated) to open the door, he actually jumped up and pawed it open!  And if he had opposable thumbs, I’m willing to bet he would have been holding a cup of coffee for his owner.  But he wasn’t always silent, especially when he feared his owner’s life to be in danger!  So many times his owner would be enjoying a cocktail, or perhaps a California cigarette, on the back porch.  The instant Nugs heard the garage door open, he would rush out back to alert his owner that figures of authority had arrived.  This gave his owner just the right amount of time to put his cell phone next to his ear and alert the curious authority figure(s) that he “gets better reception outside”.  Now if only it was as simple to explain the popcorn in the microwave, the bowl of cereal on the counter, the bagel bites in the oven, and the opened bag of carrots which appeared to have been dipped in marinara sauce before eaten.

One night, his owner decided to have a little too much fun (drink beyond excess), sneak out, wreck his car, and park it back in its original spot.  It was actually Nugs’ idea to go with the “somebody stole it, wrecked it, and brought it back” alibi.  Although not his best idea, it was way better than that of his owner’s, which sounded something like “Uh, I don’t know what happened, I was sleeping”.  By 2004, at the ripe age of 10, Nugget was a master of deception, and a veteran partyer.  Fearing that his dog’s alcoholism and slight marijuana addiction may in fact turn into a full blown coke habit, his owner decided it would be best to move out and let “the Nug” (his street name) get clean.  Yes mom and dad, you finally understand why I went to college.  It was not so I could further my education and become a success in this world, or so that I could entangle myself in many compromising situations with promiscuous girls who could hardly be categorized as sanitary, it was so our beloved Nugget could kick his habits.  And he did!  At the age of 70, he had cleaned up his act, going cold turkey since the day his owner left.

His final years were his finest years.  With his drinking problem tamed, Nugs went back to the simpler life of eating, sleeping, eating, watching TV, eating, sleeping.  As for going to the restroom, at his age there was really no need to go outside.  Some may argue that he lost control of his bladder and his bowels, I beg to differ.  The man was clearly making a statement.  I mean really, if you’re 80 something years old, and somebody tells you when and where to go to the bathroom, I think you’d shit right on their floor as well.  And by age 90, you have earned the right to piss wherever and on whatever you please!  Hell, some of you (us) have been doing it on occasion (often) since High School; who are we to judge?

Unfortunately, the time had come for our gracious companion to leave this world behind.  Pain-free and happy, he went to a better place.  He is sharing a cocktail (it’s ok to start again in Doggie Heaven) and a laugh with the likes of other animal greats such as, Thunder (perhaps not in Doggie Heaven), Rebel, Mookey, and the kindergarten class hamster that passed on because I thought the clear ball he walked around in was a pool toy.  And you better believe he will be the first one at the gate, with a bottle of Andre in his paw, a limo cap on his head, and a sign in his hand that reads “Duke, Cleo, Nikki, Welcome to the Party!”  So friends and family, next time you pick up a drink, pour a bit out and share a memory about a great friend of mine and a great friend of yours!  My Dog, My Hero.

MASTER GOLDEN NUGGET aka “NUGS”      Sept 1st, 1995 – June 1st, 2009

Who says customer service no longer exists?  Bank of America kicks ass and takes names…

Chat InformationWelcome to an online chat session at Bank of America. Please hold while we connect you to the next available Bank of America Online Banking Specialist. Your chat may be monitored and recorded for quality purposes. Your current wait time is approximately 0 minutes. Thank you for your patience.

Chat InformationThank you for choosing Bank of America. You are now being connected to a Bank of America Online Banking Specialist.

Amber: Hello. Thank you for being a valued Bank of America customer. I’ll be happy to assist you with your personal checking and savings accounts.
Amber: My name is Amber.  How are you doing today?
You: great, i need my routing number
Amber: I understand your concern regarding  the routing number, I will be delighted to assist you today.
Amber: May I please have your full name and the last four digits of the Checking account in question?
You: awesome, the faster you work, the more likely ill live.
Amber: Sure.
Amber: May I please have your full name and the last four digits of the Checking account in question?
You: [Fuck Internet Creeps]
You: [XXXX]
Amber: Thank you very much, [Me].
You: wow, i had to kick his ass for that one
Amber: The routing numbers will depend upon the state where your account was opened. I see that your accounts are opened in  Florida.
You: yeah, sure.
Amber: The routing numbers for your account are:
Amber: Paper Item – [XXXXXXXXX]
Amber: Automatic Payment/Deposit (ACH) – [XXXXXXXXXX]
Amber: Wire transfer routing number is XXXXXXXXX
Amber: Use the routing number accordingly depending up on the type of need.
You: well it’s only gonna be one transfer…
You: that hooker in singapore costs you a lifetime
Amber: So is it a  wire transfer?
You: lol, no. Fortunately I dont have to go back to that dump. I just owe my bookies for the loan, luckily they are domestic.
Amber: Okay, great. If it is an online transfer and not wire please use, XXXXXXXXX.
Amber: Do you have any other queries regarding your personal checking and savings accounts?
Amber: I would be more than happy to help you.
You: unless you have a solid opium connection, I think we’re square.
Amber:
Amber: [Me], it was really very nice chatting with you.
Amber: Thank you for choosing Bank of America’s Text Chat Service! Have a fabulous day!
Amber: Lastly, I have one more information to share with you today.
Amber: If you click the “Close” button next to the Print option, we  could safeguard this chat session and also your account information.
You: See no evil, hear no evil eh? Sorry, for coroner purposes I’m probably going to document this.
Amber: Sure.
Amber: Bye, and take care!
You: You’re great! See you in Hell.
Amber: Bye.
Last text message receivedChat InformationThank you for chatting with us. We value your feedback and would like to invite you to take a moment to complete a survey and tell us how we did today. The survey takes only a few moments to complete and will be presented to you upon closing this window.

Ok, so Amber left me a bit unsatisfied…

Chat InformationWelcome to an online chat session at Bank of America. Please hold while we connect you to the next available Bank of America Online Banking Specialist. Your chat may be monitored and recorded for quality purposes. Your current wait time is approximately 0 minutes. Thank you for your patience.
Chat InformationThank you for choosing Bank of America. You are now being connected to a Bank of America Online Banking Specialist.

Rom: Good Morning!! How are you doing today?
Rom: Thank you for being a valued Bank of America customer. My name is Rom. How can I assist you with your personal checking and savings accounts today?
You: hey Rom, I just had a hilarious conversation with Amber, but my computer froze and it was deleted.
You: can you restore this for me.
Rom: I do apologize. We are unable to restore the previous chat transcript for you. I can assist you with your Online Banking needs.
You: well Rom that seems very unlikely since all conversations are stored as to verify customer satisfaction?
Rom: We can review the previous chat transcripts of the same customer. However, I am unable to review the conversation which you had earlier.
You: well can you locate amber and ask her what the dealio is?
You: I understand that your company is big, so theres probably at least 3 consultants, so find her and tap her on the shoulder, please.
Rom: I do apologize. However, I am unable to contact the other associates as there are several associates.
Rom: Do you have any other questions with regards to your account?
You: Yes, just 1, do you know Amber?
Rom: No.
You: Why are you protecting her? Are you guys an item?
Rom: I am not trying to protect any one. I just don’t know any associate by name Amber. I am a live person.
Rom: Do you have any other questions with regards to your account  that I can assist you today?
You: Rom, this aint my first rodeo… I’d appreciate it if you didn’t play me for a fool…
Rom: I am sorry you feel such way.
Rom: May I please have your full name as it appears on your accounts?
You: Absolutely, [Me].
Rom: Thank you for providing the information, [Me].
Rom: Is there anything else that I can assist you today?
You: Are you looking for that conversation between Amber and I which I previously spoke of? Because that would be appreciated.
Rom: [Me], it seems to have some technical glitch due to which I am unable to review the conversation between you and Amber.
Rom: I do apologize for the inconvenience.
You: Wow, very convenient?
You: seriously, I’m not asking for much sir.
You: and I do appreciate your time.
Rom: I do understand that you wish to review the conversation [Me].
Rom: Do you have any other questions with regards to your account?
You: Well the reason I wanted to review the conversation is because she provided me with my routing number.
You: I thought thatd be easier than asking for it again, but apparently not?
Rom: [Me], I can provide the routing number for your accounts in a moment/
Rom: May I know why you need the routing number?
You: why didn’t you say that? we could have avoided all the hassle?
Rom: [Me], you did not provide me your concerns inspite of being asked for 3 times.
Rom: May I know why you need the routing number?
You: I only feel comfortable revealing that information to Amber.
You: not to be a jerk, but its rather incriminating.
Rom: [Me], as I am unable to connect you to Amber, I can provide you the link to find the routing number online.
Rom: Would you like me to do that for you?
You: yeah thatd be great, but cant you just type it in this window? amber used to…
Rom: Let me explain this to you.
You: I’m all ears.
Rom: When you will get disconnected from an associate and re-initiated the chat, a new window will pop up and the person to which you are chatting cannot use the chat window which the earlier associate used.
Rom: As you wish to have the routing numbers for your account,
You: Im listening…
Rom: Please click here
Rom: Is there anything else that I can assist you today?
You: Wow, I just clicked it.
You: Rom, you’re no spring chicken eh?
Rom: [Me], do you have any other questions with regards to your account?
You: Just one, how do I contact you instead of amber? Shes old news.
Rom: Regrettably, when you initiate a chat we are unable to transfer you to a desired associate. Every time you initiate a chat a new associate will be assisting you.
Rom: We have many associates which assist you with your online needs.
You: But Rom, I don’t like most people. You and I, we have something.
Rom: I do apologize. But that cannot happen.
Rom: Do you have any other questions with regards to your account?
You: Unfortunately I do not, but how can we take our relationship to the next level?
Rom: [Me], this chat channel is purely for professional use and Bank of America does not allow such type of conversations through this channel.
Rom: To safeguard your account information, I suggest you to close this chat session  by clicking the close button in the top right corner.
You: Oh Rom you’re silly, I didn’t mean in a weird sexual way, but I’d like you to be my goto person when it comes to banking.
Rom: Please do not worry [Me], we have plenty of associates who can assist you better than me with your online needs.
Rom: Thank you for choosing Bank of America’s Text Chat Service!
Rom: To safeguard your account information, I suggest you to close this chat session by clicking the close button in the top right corner.
You: Is this goodbye my friend?
Rom: Regrettably. Yes.
You: I feel your pain. Online banking will never be the same.
You: now what?
You: Rom, please don’t leave me high and dry.
You: Ok Ok, I have another banking question.
You: Rom, please talk me off the ledge…
Rom: I will be able to assist you only with your banking needs.
You: Oh thank God! I thought this was over.
You: Rom, I gotta be honest, I had a bad run at the tracks today.
You: It’s got me questioning a lot of stuff.
Rom: I do understand [Me].
You: My friends call me [Not Important].
Rom: Could you please provide me your concerns regarding the online banking needs.
You: Yes, if i take another bad hit, my account will be in the red, then what do I do Rom?
Rom: I do understand your concerns regarding the checking account, [Me].
Rom: After reviewing your account information, I see that your account is in good status as of now and is not overdrawn.

CLICK HERE FOR A SCREEN SHOT OF THE REST

You: As of now, but have you heard of relapse?
Rom: I see that your account is enrolled for Overdraft Protection using your credit card account ending in – 4476 as funding account.
Rom: Each time an Overdraft Protection is needed, increments of $100.00 will be transferred from the account designated for Overdraft Protection, also known as the funding account.
Rom: If $100.00 is not available in the account designated, we may transfer the amount immediately available.
Rom: If there are not enough available funds in your funding account to cover any of your overdraft transactions, no funds will be transferred and an overdraft fee for each item will apply.
Rom: To ensure the Overdraft Protection service works properly you must have available funds in your Overdraft Protection account.
Rom: When funds are not available to pay an item being presented to the checking account, funds will be transferred from the Overdraft Protection account.
You: Rom I appreciate your sincerity, but have you ever watched a race knowing that your life depends on it? I mean, No milk for the kids, no hanky panky for the wife, no nothing if you lose?
You: the rush is too great. how can the bank quench this thirst?
Rom: I do understand that you are referring to the fees.
You: the fees? that’s the cheap part!
Rom: If any fee is charged to the account, we will be able to review the fees and can assist you accordingly.
Rom: Do you have any other questions with regards to your account that I can assist you with today, [Me]?
You: How can you assist me if I’m thumbless? I’ll be unable to type Rom.
You: Rom, shoot me straight here, she’s taking half my money and my only child. If not the tracks, my only other option is a rope and a wobbly stool.
Rom: From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry to hear that from you [Me].
Rom: However, as Bank of America Live Chat Customer service is a professional chat, we do not entertain the personal chatting through this channel.
Rom: Do you have any other questions with regards to your account?
You: Rom, I understand your position and I don’t want to put any extra weight on your shoulders. But we are now friends, so sometimes your position in life changes.
Rom: Thank you for the wish [Me].
Rom: To safeguard your account information, I suggest you to close this chat session by clicking the close button in the top right corner.
You: I know where the button is Rom. But if I click it, it closes a chapter of my life as well as the only outlet to sanity. So what do you think Rom, should i really press that button?
Rom: Thank you for your patience, I will be right with you.
You: No no Rom, thank you for your patience Rom, I know I can be a loose cannon at times.
Rom: [Me], I am here to assist you only with the banking needs. I am not supposed to chat about the personal issues.
Rom: If you have any further concerns, please feel free to contact us immediately.
You: i know you arent “suppose” to, but please break the mold!
You: Rom ill be honest, I don’t think Im gonna jump anytime soon, but it’d be nice to talk to someone.
Rom: [Me], I request you to please close the chat window by clicking on the close button on the top of this chat window. If not, I will be forced to end the chat conversation.
You: Ok Rom, just because I like you.
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If you’re anything like me, the last time you prayed was either while watching a sporting event, hugging a toilet, or after open-mouth kissing a hooker; but here comes Christmas Eve, our last chance at salvation.  Oh yes, it’s that time of year again; that one glorious hour a year which we spend in church attempting to absolve ourselves from an action-packed year of sinnin’.  In order to catch the 8pm service, our family wolfs down an absurd amount of pasta right around 7pm and then piles into the car.  Like every year, I’m forced to stuff myself into the unaccommodating 3^rd row of seats because I am the child (23) and apparently age will forever outrank height.

Like some bizarre breed of religious gypsies, over the course of 10 years, we’ve been to at least 4 or 5 different churches.  As I am now 23, this cannot possibly be due to my Sunday School behavior at age 8 for which “I am no longer welcome.”  I thought church was like prison, and that they can’t turn people away; I thought wrong.  This year’s new holiday hot spot is actually located in a neighborhood.  Somehow, we manage to find front row parking just steps away from the front door of the cathedral.  As the clown car unloads, I take in the sights and smells of the elderly.  Through a window, I can see my grandma and Bill (step-grandpa) as they, along with the rest of the choir, prepare for the impending show.  Won’t my friends be jealous, I’m related to a member of the band!

As I enter, an old man who has intentionally dressed up in a captain’s suit thinking that it’s just a regular suit gives me a handshake and a program.  I quickly flip through it, but am unable to find any stats on tonight’s key players.  I’m at the end of the line as my family attempts to lock down some “good seats.”  Besides my dad, mom, and sister, we are also accompanied by 2 other distant relatives; one of which does not speak English.  My contention is that we brought them so we don’t look the most out of place.  Moments after we’re seated, I already have to use the bathroom; since we still have 5 minutes til showtime, no harm, no foul.

On the way to the restroom, I walk against the grain as the choir enters.  My grandma has already entered, so I fist-bump Bill and carry on my way.  After realizing that whole wheat pasta was in fact a poor choice, I return to my seat.  On the way, I’m stopped by Captain and he asks me if I have a candle.  I told him that I couldn’t remember whether or not my family had grabbed them, so he hands me 3.  Upon pew arrival, I realize that my family does have candles, so now I have 3 extra to play with during the show.  Just as the show begins, I scan the room for hot bible bangers; I find 1, but she looks 14, tops.

I can barely see my grandma because there is a cross in front of her.  Without hesitation, I wave my hands frantically in the air until I am noticed.  She sees me and then proceeds to turn red as she whispers to her neighboring band member that “[I’m] her grandson.”  When the female pastor beings to speak, something is awry; she is way too perky and nice.  She reminds me of a Stepford wife; she is up to no good and must be stopped.  As she carries on, I’m the only one who continuously giggles on cue every time she says “baby Jesus.”  Apparently members of this church are not fans of Ricky Bobby.  As I continue to text friends who don’t believe that I’m actually at church, I start to notice that it is very hot.  At first I think this might just be the evil permeating from my skin, but when I notice everyone else using their programs as fans, I realize I am not alone.

About 15 minutes into the show, I read my program and learn that we are only on “lesson 2” of 6.  Between the Sahara level heat and all of the standing/sitting for street theater-style hymn singing, I feel round 2 of whole wheat pasta rapidly approaching.  As sweat begins to drip down the back of my knees, I notice that the old man seated in front of me smells like glue; he also had a particularly interesting pattern of ear hair.  I’m also surprised that my dad is still awake; generally by this point he has already snored loud enough to captivate the audience and steal the pastor’s thunder.  Once lesson 3 is completed, I feel that it’s an appropriate time to update my Twitter/Facebook status:

“At church.  Clearly I don’t belong.  I feel as if the church elders can smell the sin…”

Right around the half way point, the church leeches pass around the metal bowls in an attempt to blatantly exploit the giving-spirit of the congregation.  I’m sitting on the end, so when Church Leech #1 hands me the bowl I say “no thanks.”  Apparently this is not an option; so I pass it down towards my dad and as he drops in some money, I explain to Church Leech #1 that “it’s from all of us.”  After the Church Leeches take us to the cleaners, they attempt to pull the wool over our eyes by following up with a musical fan favorite, O Little Town of Bethlehem.  As my sister holds the hymn book open and offers me a glance, I refuse and decide to whistle the theme from Happy Days instead.  As I begin to applaud after the performance, I quickly realize this is frowned upon; so instead I take a picture to capture the magic.

Before I know it, we are done with lesson 5.  Somewhere during the Stepford’s speech, I heard her say something along the lines of “it’s ok to forgive prostitutes.”  At first I thought I had just made this up in my head or that maybe I was drunk at church again, but after sharing a confused look with my sister, I realize this did in fact come out of Stepford’s mouth.  I scan the program once more, and this time I catch the fine print, Communion!  F**k yes, refreshments!  Thank [Gosh] I took those Jesus classes back in the day before my Sunday School mishap, because now I am eligible for snack time.  After I watch my distant relatives scarf down their undeserved snacks, I realize that the Jesus classes were a crock of sh*t.

This church has the most inefficient process I have ever seen when it comes to refreshment distribution.  They have a church elder come to one end of the pew and then pass the bread and party sauce (wine) down the line one person at a time.  When Church Elder #1 offers it to me, I say “no thanks I’m on Atkins.”  I’m not sure if she understood what I said or not because she just stared blankly at me; I guess I should have gone with my dad’s suggestion and “[asked] her where the cheese is.”  Thank [Gosh] the serving size of bread was no greater than a crouton, because my stomach was already about to explode.

I look down at my watch and to my surprise it’s almost been an hour!  Wow, I guess church isn’t all bad when you have an iPhone and they serve booze.  It is now time to light our candles and sing another fan favorite, Silent Night.  I take my 3 candles and grip them between my fingers in a Wolverine-style fashion.  Church Elder #1 lights my first candle and then once she’s gone I secretly fire up the other two.  I am proud of my artistic decision and wave my fiery claw around in the air.  After I burn my sister on the arm, I extinguish the flames; once again I prove that I am not to be trusted with fire.

As we exit the church in an orderly fashion, I notice that the Asian guy behind me is still singing way beyond the appropriate stopping point; I also notice that he still has his hymn book with him.  I tell him that “I don’t think you’re suppose to take [those] with you.”  Finally he stops singing and hustles back inside to return Jesus’ property; surely church thievery earns you an express pass to Hell.  We get a chance to meet the band after the show and congratulate them on a job well done.  After piling back in the car, I realize it will be another 365 days before I have to visit one of these places again.  In retrospect, it is a very small price to pay; an hour of prayer for a lifetime of sin.

Reality TV, it’s so bad that you can’t look away.  Wouldn’t it be nice if the TV guide told you what you would actually be watching?  The hardest part about this was coming up with only 1 alternative title, so I didn’t.  Here are 10 popular reality TV shows in no particular order; you choose whatever your little heart desires.

The Real Housewives of [Wherever]
A.  Bitter and Horny
B.  We Peaked In High School
C.  How Botox Works
D.  Rock Bottom

Fear Factor
A.  Dumb People Eating Weird Shit
B.  Joe Rogan For President
C.  Swimsuits and Silicone
D.  Rent’s Due

Keeping Up with the Kardashians
A.  Chubby Is The New Black
B.  Why Are We Famous?
C.  You’ve Seen Me Naked
D.  The Interracial Dating Show

Hogan Knows Best
A.  True Life: I’m a Terrible Father
B.  Annoying Giants
C.  My Son the Jailbird
D.  Divorce, Brutha!

The Girls Next Door
A.  We All Look the Same
B.  Sugar Daddy or Kid Petter?
C.  Expensive Boobies
D.  The Luckiest Bastard on the Planet

Jersey Shore
A.  Jersey Trash
B.  We Talk Dumb
C.  Guido Dumpster
D.  FatChicksWithDoucheBags

The Hills
A.  Why Can’t You Change the Channel?
B.  Herpe Nation
C.  SluttyChicksWithDoucheBags
D.  The Brunette’s Face Will Bug You

I’m a Celebrity… Get me out of Here!
A.  Nuke This Island
B.  BlondeChickWithDoucheBag
C.  I’m an Idiot… I Belong Here!
D.  The Surreal Life Goes Tropical

Jon & Kate Plus 8
A.  Watch Us Cheat
B.  America’s Loosest Vagina
C.  Mommy, Where’s Daddy?
D.  Train Wreck

Flavor of Love
A.  Black Viking Gets Laid
B.  The Reason Stereotypes Exist
C.  Big Clocks
D.  Betty Ford Unplugged

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad.

“Just because you’re smart doesn’t mean you can’t act stupid.”
- Morris “Mud” Himmel, Camp Nowhere

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad for getting kicked out of several preschools.  I’m even sorrier that I was too young to understand that you had your own problems, and that the last thing you needed was to come home to a son who just got expelled for hitting his teacher with a lunch box because she wouldn’t let him go to the bathroom.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad that you had to pay for years of private school.  I’m even sorrier that you had to do this because the public school system threatened to put me into classes with the “special needs” children if I did not leave.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad for learning how to copy DVDs and then selling them over the internet in an attempt to turn a small profit only to have the FBI call the house barking empty threats.  I’m even sorrier that I was 12.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad for breaking into my Middle School Principal’s email account and sending letters to all the teachers that said “I’m Gay” under his name.  I’m even sorrier that you had to beg, plead, and ultimately buy a new gymnasium scoreboard in order to keep me from getting expelled.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad that I only pretended to take my prescription Adderall before school.  I’m even sorrier that I sold it to my friends during recess.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad for splitting a liter of rum with some friends before a football game freshman year of High School, and then throwing up in a friend’s car while her mom drove us, only to later lie to you and blame it on a “bad taco salad” that I had ate.  I’m even sorrier that my friend’s dad was my science teacher, and that the car in which I puked did in fact belong to him.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad that I learned how to drive when I was 14 by joyriding in your car at 2 in the morning while you were out of town.  I’m even sorrier that I was really really high when I did it.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad for failing an impromptu drug test after getting in the car with you under the false pretense that you were “taking me to the mall to buy new shoes” and then somehow ending up at the doctor’s office.  I’m even sorrier that I admitted guilt only to later find out that the tests did in fact come back negative.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad that you had to give me that extremely long and painful lecture on why smoking weed will eventually lead to my demise.  I’m even sorrier that I got arrested later that day for smoking weed.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad that you had to go to court with me after I got arrested for smoking weed.  I’m even sorrier that I was friends with 3 other kids that we saw at the courthouse.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad for getting kicked out of wrestling camp because they found a bag of pot in my bag.  I’m even sorrier that they had to call my Uncle to pick me up and actually explain what “marijuana” was to him because you guys were out of the country.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad for “breaking your trust” so many times that you decided to remove the door from my room.  I’m even sorrier that I was left with no choice but to toss a towel over a pull-up bar in an attempt to create some sort of make shift shanty door as its replacement.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad that I wrecked my car when I was 16 and then fled the scene of the crime.  I’m even sorrier that after you spent over an hour waking me up, the most accurate location of the car that I could give you was “at the corner of Tampa road and eleven dollars and fifty-six cents.”

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad for coming home after curfew and toasting a sandwich in the conventional oven because the toaster oven was broken.  I’m even sorrier that it set off the fire alarm and when you came to investigate what had happened, you found me passed out in my room with the lights, TV, and my shoes still on.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad that Rizzo and I shot out all of his neighbor’s outdoor lights, as well as a one-of-a-kind stained glass window, with a BB gun.  I’m even sorrier that neighbor happened to be a family friend and that it was Rizzo’s mom’s birthday on the day we were caught.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad that I drove 100 miles in the wrong direction on my way home from a night club one night.  I’m even sorrier that after a cop pulled me over and told me to “wait for my safe ride,” I only waited for him to leave before I got right back on the road.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad for sneaking out, getting drunk, and wrecking my car.  I’m even sorrier that the best explanation I could come up with was that “someone must have stole it, wrecked it, and brought it back” in the morning.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad that you have had to endure all of the above.  I’m even sorrier that these are only the things that happened before I turned 18.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad for the tens of thousands of dollars you have spent on my legal fees over the years.  I’m even sorrier that tens of thousands is not a typo.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad that this list only contains about 6% of the things for which I’m sorry.  I’m even sorrier that I can’t remember 94% of my life’s regrets.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad for always being the ringleader of mischievous activity and not giving you some friend to blame for “negatively influencing” me.  I’m even sorrier that you didn’t realize this until about 2 weeks ago.

I’m Sorry Mom and Dad for ignoring almost every piece of advice that you have ever given me.  I’m even sorrier for the mistakes I will make in the years to come.

Love,

Your Son

Let me start out by saying Fuck You, City of Los Angeles Parking Violations Bureau!  Anyone who lives in or around the Los Angeles area has definitely thought, if not said, these exact words.  For those of you who do not live in the Los Angeles area, allow me to give you a brief overview.  Certainly you have heard about the horrors of Los Angeles traffic, but what many people fail to connect it with is parking.  Once the clusterfuck of assholes finally gets off of the gridlocked freeways, where do they go?  You guessed it, it’s time to park.  You would expect that one of the most sophisticated cities is the country would be familiar with such simple concepts as “driveways” and “garages,” but you have expected too much.  With the exception of the uber-rich that live at the ends of windy canyon roads, the rest of the hoi polloi are stuck fending for themselves in the dangerous world of “street parking.”  I’m making the poor assumption that anyone who is reading this went to college and will in turn understand the following scenario.  We are all familiar with the process of circling a campus parking garage for tens of minutes that seem like tens of hours, hoping you will be able to find a spot in time to make your noon class.  The only things helping you keep your sanity are the smoking hot coeds walking by wearing their mini skirts and hooker boots, and the idea that your destination is in fact a college campus, better known as the greatest place on earth.  The Best Part?  Ultimately, after little success, we use this as a great excuse to skip class and instead decide to get fall down drunk at a neighboring apartment pool at 12:30pm on a Wednesday.  Ok, have that image?  Now, let’s replace “smoking hot coeds wearing mini skirts and hooker boots” with disease infested homeless people who may or may not spit hepatitis into your eyes, and “college campus, the greatest place on earth” with Los Angeles, an open sore on Satan’s cock. Welcome to LA.

To get into all of the City of Los Angeles’ parking problems would turn this into a thesis, so I’ll just address my main concern, my most recent ticket.  I’ve lived in the Westside of Los Angeles for quite some time now, and have recently moved down the street.  Now, for those of you not familiar with the area, the first thing you must learn is how to read parking signs.  I have seen single signs with up to 6 or 7 different regulations.  Some examples are No Parking 7am – 7pm except Sat and Sun, No Parking 10am – 12pm Thursdays Street Cleaning, Parking by Permit Only, and 2-Hour Parking from 8am – 12pm (for this, someone actually comes around and “chalks your tire” to see if the car moves within the 2-hour span.  Wow, what a job, I can only imagine the qualifications of these Parking Nazis/Professional Tire Chalkers).  These are just a few of the listings.  Anyway, in the case of my ticket, I allegedly parked “3ft from, Blocking Fire hydrant access.”  This statement already contradicts itself.  There is no red paint on the curb here at all.  View Image.  As if this ticket isn’t dumb enough, the presumably highly educated “Chalkhead” checked off the Anti Gridlock violation code, which happens to be more expensive, as opposed to the Fire Hydrants one (they also said my SUV is grey, it’s silver, dick).  View Image. I really don’t blame this person, I do however blame the community college that turned down their application.

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So now what?  Well, it’s time to contest the citation.  Oh goody, I have to waste time and witty vocabulary because someone else is dumb.  The great state of California is flat broke, and the Government’s best answer is to steal money back from its citizens via traffic citations.  I’m considering moving to Canada, harsh winters and global mockery has to be better than this.  I call the first number listed on the ticket which turns out to be a TTY.  Basically what that means is that it’s for people with hearing devices enabled on their phone.  If a person of normal hearing calls that number, it rings twice and then makes that awful sounding “fax machine/modem connecting to the internet” noise.  Thanks again Parking Violations Bureau.  So next, I call the Toll-free number.  You know what used to be a good thing?  When you could call a number and talk to a real live person! I know, I know, what a thing of the past right?  After getting the run around from a fembot who didn’t even sound hot, I curse several times at the fake person and throw my phone against the wall (thank God for the OtterBox).  The droid instructed me to try the internet, or mail in a written correspondence and wait for a reply.  Wow, considering I have 21 days from citation to fucked, I’m thinking this isn’t the best route.  I check out the City of Los Angeles Parking Violations Bureau website, www.lacity-parking.org, and find a way to request an Initial Review through an online submission.  I stay professional by keeping the Citizen’s Statement section free of curse words.  I hit submit, thinking I have found a way to backdoor the system.  It turns out I am the only one getting backdoored, and it’s by the large, veiny cock of the system.  After I clicked submit, I received this error:  The information you entered is not yet available in our system. Please call (866) 561-9742 to speak with a Customer Service Representative.  Wait just a second here?  That’s the same number I just called where an automated machine told me to go fuck myself.

I think back to my first days in LA, when I got a ticket for stopping a foot in front of the white line at a stop sign (don’t get me started).  After trying to pay this ticket through the internet and the phone (I guess it was my fault), I actually had to go to the Los Angeles DMV.  So, you think you’ve seen the craziest of the crazies that the DMV has to offer?  Really, you do?  I challenge you to spend the day at a LA DMV, you know, just for fun (yeah right).  It’s not so much the waiting in line, that’s standard, it’s all the characters that surround you.  Everything from P. Diddy wannabes, to people talking on their cell phones who apparently think they were in the privacy of their own home, to the idiot who somehow thinks he’s going to cut the line without being noticed and/or killed, to the guy behind me who was wearing a bandanna, cowboy hat, and three belts.  Bottom line, it was like a bad acid trip sans the acid.  An hour later, I was at the window.  The scientist at the computer must have been rejected by the same community college as our Chalkhead, because she was not smart.  After 15 minutes of unnecessary typing, she alerts me that the ticket has not yet been processed, and it’s up to me to sporadically call in to see if I can pay yet.  Wow, that’s exciting!  Might I add that I was only at the DMV because the payment deadline for the ticket was the following day (otherwise the penalty increases).  So the plot thickens.  Do I get charged a late fee because the ticket hasn’t even been processed by that date?  The scientist says no, but I don’t believe her.  She also tells me that if the ticket hasn’t processed within a year, it gets nullified.  Hurray, I’ll keep my fucking fingers crossed.

With only 21 days to contest a ticket, what does one do after week 3 if the ticket still hasn’t been processed?  Who knows, maybe I should just call the Parking Violations Bureau everyday until they are ready to blindly reject my contestation.  This kind of idiocracy is what causes road rage in the first place.  And who intervenes in said situations?  Well that might just be the City of Los Angeles Parking Violations Bureau.  Wow, it’s a vicious fucking circle ain’t it?  I will gladly spend 10,000 of Visa’s dollars to resurrect and then hire Johnnie Cochran before I pay 1 fucking dime to the criminal’s of Los Angeles County that call themselves the Parking Violations Bureau.  So ladies and gentlemen, not that this email is going to change anything, but maybe it will put a smile on your face knowing that you aren’t the only one who’s been cornholed by the Government.  So raise your fist high in the air and scream it with me, Fuck You, City of Los Angeles Parking Violations Bureau!

Oh, and happy holidays!

-Arian Adams

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I was visiting a buddy in the valley the other night and we really had nothing to do.  So, we decided to drain a bottle of Captain Morgan and head to a strip club that offered “free cover” (not really free because it cost me my innocence, and 10 dollars).  Once at the club, it was indeed a trick.  The club had 2 entrances, 1 to the full nude for $10, the other to the bikini bar for free (if I had a nickel for every time I was tricked by promises of free nudity…).  After grabbing a beer at the bikini bar, we were loose enough to drop the coin for entry into the full nude.

Once inside, my buddy grabs us 2 seats at the bar.  Generally, if you sit right at the bar, it’s customary to tip, luckily we don’t give a fuck.  After a barrage of mediocore women, finally the gem of the club steps onto the stage.  I gaze into her homely mug, then my eyes meander down to her sagging breasts, next I stare intently at her pregnant belly, and finally my eyes wonder south to her beat up… wait a second, back up.  Pregnant belly?  Oh yes.  I look around at the rest of the crowd, comprised mainly of lumberjacks and migrant workers, yet it appears that only my buddy and I are taken back by this sight.  She comes over to us and shows us her birth canal.  I start crying and give her 2 dollars to go away.  Later, during the 2 for 1 lap dance special (yeah, this place was classy), and insider (bobble-head blond) who was grinding my pal alerts him that the dancer in question was indeed 7 months pregnant.

On the way out, I reflect on this revelation.  Much like bigfoot or the enchanted unicorn, the pregnant stripper is a creature always spoken of yet never seen.  Well my friends, thanks to technology and lackluster security, we now have proof that she does in fact exist.  Godspeed.

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(These pictures are good, but they don’t come close to doing justice to show how pregnant this stripper actually was)