Urine Denial


A noted germaphobe, Donald J. Trump wears goggles and, apparently, a mouth guard when partaking in piss parties.

What a great feeling it has been to know that security agencies around the world have been discussing a dossier which creates a scenario where President- Elect Donald J. Trump allegedly showers himself with the piss of Russian hookers due to petty anti-Obama grievances. Whereas Buzzfeed is getting a lot of shit for releasing the files of unproven allegations by White House staffers and other members of the national media, their actions brought upon a global stage a document shared by many since October 20. The public has a right to know what those in power want to keep under wraps.

The only thing this dossier proves to me is that karma is real, and it can be a mean, nasty bitch. Which is perfect for a man who likes to “grab them by the pussy/” The same guy who peddled 8 years of birth certificate scrutiny of a black President, who echoed the Klan during his presidential campaign and retweeted their messages, who hurled weak, invective teenage nicknames and innuendo at his political opponents, and who repeated lie after lie after lie to a gullible public. The Donald, hoisted by his own petard.

On January 20, the whole world will be watching America, and we shall respond with a steady stream of piss jokes. The Drumpf legacy, forever, will be golden.

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Bum Ride

<> on September 10, 2013 in New York City.Friday was the coldest day of the year in Austin, so the morning bus ride was half-filled with homeless people. Patchouli and one crazy man’s mumbling filled the air as I sat in my seat. “They’re going to the back of the bus,” was the opening commentary, followed by snickers. “They” indicated me and the pretty black lady who dresses sharp and, apparently, takes the 7:37am ride from in front of the 3-story, relatively recently built apartment complex a couple blocks from my home. That was a fun construction experience with 7am Saturday morning wake up calls for those within beeping distance of the site. It was 6am during the week. Construction firm got themselves an exemption, it seemed, to begin work in our residential area as a business area. I had sent a cranky neighborhood man email to the City Council one sleep deprived Saturday morning. The result was getting a phone call from an Austin police officer, checking in on me making sure I wasn’t going to snap. I happen think it’s funny to end rants with “I’m mad as hell, and can’t take it anymore!” but my bad for quoting Network in this situation. Still, the cop wasn’t very helpful. In his bid to turn lemons into lemonade, he suggested that instead of writing angry letters at 6:30 on a Saturday morning, I should join a gym to take out my aggression. “I bet you can get a good workout in,” he happily suggested. arnold2

I’ve always enjoyed taking public transit, and the ride I take to work every day is quick and easy – down Manor, by DK Royal Stadium, over to some county tax assessment offices, by the public hospital, and then up the hill to the Capitol. When I was back East, I read on the subway, but the bus doesn’t quite do it for me. Instead, I sit and watch the road, and think about not having to handle the traffic around me. On this particular morning I’m thinking about the HR meeting all us new proofreaders had the day before, where overtime rules weren’t discussed, but the automatic 9.5% deduction for the retirement benefits was explained. Of course, I can buy my benefits paid back at a 25% penalty, including an additional penalty for not being 59 years old (duh). For those keeping track at home, that’s a 2% capture of my pay by the employer paying me. The good news is my basic health benefits are covered, and I’m automatically signed up for basic life and accidental dismemberment, which can only mean a bonus windfall at the most vulnerable time of my life, so that’s nice.


It’s a 21 minute ride for me. During my time on the bus, a few more students and daily workers hop on and off. Two of the sprawled out homeless begin to wake up, and the crazy guy’s play-by-play transpires into a dialogue. I exit at the Capitol and make my way up the hill and then its marble steps before getting to work. I got to admit, that part ain’t too shabby.

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Minor Alterations


I start my new job tomorrow. To say I’m nervous is an understatement. During my interview, I was told that I had dressed only 50% acceptably. My shoes were fine, but the blue jeans with my shirt untucked was not. Khakis or chinos with my buttoned, collared shirt tucked in is the expected wardrobe for proofreaders at the Capitol. I needn’t worry about a tie.

Due to a lack of money and interest, I don’t do a lot of clothes shopping; but I do know when on the calendar to shop, and so I hit that Macy’s Post Christmas One Day Sale last Monday and came away with two pairs of chino pants at $14 a pop.  I got them each hemmed for another $11 per pair. Granted, the pants are not the cut I truly desire, but beggars can’t be choosers. Though far from skinny pants, I wouldn’t say I’m comfortable in the thighs, what with my squat, fire hydrant body shape. Though I can place both hands in my pockets, I don’t think I can tuck my shirt in and hide the shape of my ass in either pair.

Thankfully, I have two other pairs of suitable pants so that the new pairs don’t get worn out too soon. I also have been on downswing with my weight as of late, and I plan to continue working out. I’ve lost 12 pounds from 6 months ago, and it’d be great to lose another 8 pounds before the end of the session. That said, I really hope I don’t split these pants before Memorial Day.

Not that I’m a doomsayer. I’m just being practical.

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A Pair of What?


Me in a sweater

“I said I look like a pear. As in the fruit.”

“A pear?”

“When I tuck my shirt in. My gut exudes, and I look like a pear.”

“Oh, no, Hun. You need hips to be a pear, and you do not have hips. You look more like a rectangle.”

“That seems unappealing. How can somebody look like a rectangle.”

“A fire hydrant. You’re like a fire hydrant.”


“Even with your stature and stomach, you’re not close to being a pear. If it matters, the gay boys see you as a Little Bear.”


Me as a sweater

“Because of my body hair?”

“Your short height and wide stance, but your body hair, should you choose to show it, would solidify the deal.”

“I’m not comfortable with being a Little Bear.”

“It’s not a bad look. A lot of the boys like Little Bears.”

“Cant’ say that makes me feel any better. Maybe I’ll go back to fire hydrant. Those at least serve a purpose.”

“Absolutely. Fire hydrants are important to every society. They are essential for firemen and their long hoses.”

“Again, you’re not helping. I guess I’ll revert back to a rectangle.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Not everyone can be flamboyant.”


Hosing around

“I think I’ve been hit on one too many times by men.”

“As long as you don’t hold gay culture accountable, that’s a perfect explanation for your insecurities.

“Okay. I don’t. You’re all free of any guilt.”

“I think you’re fine then.”

“Is it fair to consider the rectangle the most important early invention outside of fire and the wheel.”

“If it makes you feel better to tuck in your shirt, then why not?”


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This Doesn’t Bode Well


The weather outside is frightful

Birds are chirping. The sun is shining. It is 72 degrees. On January 1, 2017, these are ominous signs of our new world’s climate propensities. I wonder how soon in the year I’ll start running my AC for I am old enough to selfishly demand my home not reach higher than 79 degrees. I can, maybe, be talked into keeping it at 81, but we better be in the middle of August and it’s freaking 110 outside. At 46-years-old, I consider comfortable climate control for the home as my $50,000 sports car. I am Earth conscious, and have been recycling since the ‘70s when Ema led our household into collecting bundles of newspapers from family and friends for us to tie up and schlep them out to the Hebrew day school all the way out on Devonshire Blvd in Northridge. That, folks, is what we considered to be suburban environmentalism in the ‘70s. Our president was Jimmy Carter back then.  He had installed solar panels at the White House.

The giraffes are dying. Elephants and cheetahs and tigers, too. They will probably be gone within a few decades. Our Earth now holds more than 7 billion humans. That kind of explosion isn’t sustainable. We’ve cut the rain forests and melted the glaciers, polluted the rivers and oceans, and still we fight, fight, fight for something most of us have no idea.

I’ll keep on living, and not just because a chicken bone tossing psychic in New Orleans told me. First she said I was an old soul, then she said I was going to live longer than I wanted to.

“That’s easy,” I said. “I’m already there.”

She laughed, thinking I made a joke, but studied my face again and got serious. “You will outlive your friends,” she said.

As she picked up the chicken bones she had thrown out in front of her for the next round of talk, she suggested, “Best make peace with that now.”

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Someone Hired Me


Can you tell how happy I am?

This is good news and I should be celebrating, but the best I can say is that I am only relieved to no longer spend hours of my day fruitlessly scouring online sources for available job postings. A seven month long endeavor that involved over 120 applications and yielded only 3 interviews, the last of which was set up by a friend who works in the office. This path led to a temporary gig at not much pay and with some unusual, employer friendly overtime rules. I do get health benefits, though, which will be a relief should I get hit by a bus between the months of April and June. The benefits don’t kick in till the third month of my five month assignment, which happens to coincide with the busiest time of the work schedule, when I can safely expect to work 50 hour weeks, and simply not have time to get a check-up. It’s a frustration that can be explained away due to bad timing, but the overtime rules is a creation of the employer’s benefit only. All accrued hours will be paid as commensurate days of service, and not at a time-and-a-half clip, either, meaning my overtime earned won’t be paid until as a regular monthly paycheck a month after the assignment ends. The flip side to all this, I am told, is that I’m pretty much getting paid into July for a job that ended May 31. I’m also told the cafeteria ain’t too shabby. The only other immediate positive takeaway is that I will be working in the most historic building in the whole goshdarned state, the Texas Capitol. I’m going to be a proofreader for the 2017 Texas Senate session.

Oh joy.

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Good Times Ahead


It’s safe to say I’ve been avoiding the news since election night. I felt let down by the media that was supposed to filter the bullshit, not serve it to me steaming on a hot plate. The future of our country had been put in the hands of a pure mad man, a comic book villain come to life if there ever was one. Did Nostradamus write a diddly about a bright orange blob suffocating mankind? Was the Joker ever put in charge of Gotham City’s government, and did he put together a cabinet of the worst of the very worst criminals and thugs and thieves? Both would be plausible.

I like to think I am waking from my stupor, thanks to the CIA making a huge stink about the Russian government’s overt involvement in our elections with the goal of getting Donald Trump elected as President of the United States. “The political equivalent of 9/11,” said Mike Morell, the former acting  head of the CIA during 9/11. This has got me back to watching the national news, at least, waiting for the next shoe to drop, though aside from Rachel Maddow, I’m not sure who to trust.  How many nights did CBS News (for example) lead with breathless, empty accusations of nefarious Hillary Clinton emails?


The answer is, just about every night the week leading up to the election especially since FBI chief James Comey reintroduced the subject matter to the Republican Congress. I know this because I used to watch CBS Evening News. I filtered their bullshit myself, and not once did Scott Pelley dive into the situation in Aleppo, either, okay?

So while laying in bed this morning before 5am, unable to get back to sleep because Fearless Leader and stuff, I made a couple decisions. One was to get back to writing every day, if not for the sake of writing, then for the sake of my sanity. My other decision was to rewrite my About page by removing the notion of AGarBlog as being an apolitical blog. I don’t think that is possible right now.

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