Monthly Archives: March 2016

“… you fucking cunt.”

I have been called a “racist,” I have been called a “racist anti semite,” I have been called a “honky motherfucker,” I have been accused of being “prejudiced against black folks,” and of “disrespecting” someone, in a retail environment, and those five insults were just the ones spoken to my face.  “I’m not prejudiced; I hate everybody,” everybody, that is, who exhibits asshole behavior, behavior to which I take grave exception, without regard to race, creed, or national origin.  I have gone off on blacks, Hispanics, Hebrews (“Don’t call me a racist anti semite, you fucking asshole.”), and lots of white people.  Fuck with me and be prepared for some righteous rage or, on the other hand, I can be one of the most polite persons you would ever want to meet.  It’s all up to YOU, Bud or Budette.

About 4:00 A.M. on a Sunday morning, of a Holiday weekend, a 4-wheel-drive “yuppie station wagon” pulled up to the front door of the 7-Eleven at which I worked.  It was a warm, summer evening, and the driver, a criminally handsome dude, about 30 years old, had his window down.  Through the windshield, I could see a beautiful blonde babe.  She got out and headed for the door, looking better all the time.  She was one hot mama and I was looking forward to talking to her, and ogling her, as she paid for her purchase(s).  I said ‘good morning’ and she asked me where the tonic water was located.  I pointed and said, “It’s in the far corner, with all the other mixes, on the bottom shelves, under all those bottles of wine.”


The previous morning, less than 24 hours before, the owner of the store came in early to stock wine and mixers on that wrought iron thingy in the corner.  He made several trips with a full hand cart.  If we had it, it was on those shelves.


She stood in front of the rack for a long time, then said, “You’ve got everything EXCEPT tonic water here.”  I said, “I’m sorry, we must be all out of it then.”   (Every word of both sides of the conversation was being heard by her husband, outside.)  She said, “Could you check in the back room?”  I said, “No, I’m sorry, if it’s not right there, we must be all out.”  She didn’t say anything else, but she started pounding her shoes, which must have had leather soles and heels, as loud as if they were hob-nailed boots.  Bang, bang, bang.  She rounded the corner, headed for the door, pounding her shoes and exhibiting the most evil look of hatred that I’ve ever seen, ANYWHERE.  Her face was TWISTED in anger so much that she was a completely different person, and UGLY.  As she was passing, directly opposite from me, she turned her head and said, “Get a life.”  I immediately yelled, “Hey, fuck you, bitch.”  One beat later, I said, “Blow it out your motherfucking yuppie ass, you fucking cunt.”  She got in the SUV and they left.  Never heard a word about it.


7 crack dealers from Oakland

There is something called the Black Skiers Association, which meets at, and destroys, a different ski resort every year, on the MLK holiday.  They have fucked up Vail and several other places.  In the late 1990s, they descended on Incline Village, on the North Shore of Lake Tahoe.  They caused a large hotel/casino, the Hyatt House, to close and lock their doors for two days.  I was working at a 7-Eleven on the South Shore of Lake Tahoe, and was aware of all the chimp activity going on nearby.  Early Sunday morning, during the holiday weekend of MLK Day, two cars rolled up to my front door.  A brand new Mercedes, still without a license plate, but having a front license plate frame that said, “Oakland-Alameda County Mercedes-Benz.”  The other car was an Acura, brand new, WITH plates. SEVEN knee-grows tumbled out of the two cars, yelling “nigger” and “motherfucker” at each other.

I had a 120 pound pit bull, named Sparky, behind the counter with me.  He belonged to George, an asshole who was great friends with the owner of the store.  George was in the cooler, stocking the shelves.  The nigs came in the store, still SCREAMING nigger and motherfucker at each other.  Sparky went on Red Alert.  I wasn’t the least bit concerned because I was packing a .357 Magnum on my hip, had a Beretta .25 auto in an ankle holster, another .357 under the counter and, of course, the Sparkster.  The mob consisted of 4 dudes and 3 dudettes.  The 3 girls and 3 of the guys were in their early 20s, were well-dressed, clean cut, and drugged-up out of control,  The 4th guy was the “head nigger,” being 30-something, over 6 feet tall, muscular, an obvious convicted felon, who was dressed all in black, with a shaved head, which looked like a bowling ball on his shoulders.  He was also a heroin junkie, as he selected a cheap-ass mystery-meat breakfast sandwich, which I wouldn’t feed to a starving dog, got a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s Syrup off a shelf, and poured half the bottle of syrup on top of the sandwich, on a paper plate, and commenced to eat that shit.  Junkies usually don’t eat that much but, when they do eat, they have a ginormous sweet-tooth.

Sparky stood, like a frigging statue, for 5 minutes.  Had he twitched one ear, all of the several metal tags, on his collar, would have tinkled.  He stood a mere 6 feet away from the assholes, with them all facing him, while putting stuff on their burritos, etc.  There was absolutely nothing to block their view of Sparky, they were just too hyped up to see him.  I was so relaxed, I was leaning against the register, smoking a cigarette, and gazing out the front door.  Finally, after a full 5 minutes, one of the younger guys went to falsetto city, exclaiming, “What kind of motherfucking dog is THAT?”  Then he said, “We better stop saying ‘nigger’ and ‘motherfucker,’ we’re making this clerk nervous and afraid.”  THAT really pissed me off, and I came close to telling them that 7 niggers were NOTHING, when I had confronted HUNDREDS of them in Watts.  Their volume went down a bit, but was still window-rattling.  Eventually, they all paid for their stuff and left.  The 6 mid-level crack dealers were all in the two cars, with the engines running, waiting for the head nigger to make his grand exit.  As he started to walk out, leaving the #1 biggest mess that I’ve ever seen, I bellowed at him, “Just leave your fucking shit on the counter here, asshole.”  Had he merely turned around, which he didn’t, I was prepared to ask him a rhetorical question:  “Do I look like your motherfucking nigger slave, asshole?”

Half a minute before they left the store, a customer came in to get a cup of coffee.  I walked over to talk to him, being then out of earshot of my police scanner.  The NEXT morning, that customer made a special trip back to the store to tell me that two Douglas County Sheriff’s cars had the coons pulled over, in front of Scottie’s Hardware, which was just 75 yards down hill, but not in my line of sight.  Two of them were already cuffed, in the back seat, and the other five were “assuming the position.”

3 1/2 months later, a Deputy named Rick Brown came in the store.  He’d been on a different shift so I hadn’t seen him since the crack dealer caper.  I told Rick the story and he informed me that the two Sheriff’s cars, that had stopped them, had been following them and were parked in the dark, about 50 yards from my front door.  They had been there the whole time.  I thought about that for a few seconds and said, “I didn’t know that, but I wouldn’t have done anything differently if I HAD known they were there.”  All 7 were arrested for drugs, weapons, and warrants, in the State of Nevada.  Just ask OJ how cool it is to be in prison in Nevada.

The St. Paddy’s Day Massacre

I worked SEVEN St. Patrick’s Days, as a valet parking attendant in an Irish joint, and I’ve seen insanity on a biblical scale.  It was a prime rib dinner house in a tony section of Long Beach, California.  That, of course, meant absolutely nothing to hundreds of shit-faced-drunk, stupid white-boys.  Exactly two miles away from my location, on Main Street, in Seal Beach, there were three Irish joints in one block.  It was a fucking war zone EVERY year.  Two years in a row, the mob rampaged down Main St., towards Pacific Coast Highway, looting jewelry store windows, overturning Seal Beach Police cars, and setting  the cars on fire.

I was the first, and most important, line of defense, for our joint, and I took my responsibility very seriously.  I was always armed in my lot and, on St. Paddy’s Day, I brought even more iron.  In addition to my standard load-out of a Model 60 Stainless Steel Chief’s Special, I had a Remington 870 pump and a S&W Model 27, 5″, .357 Magnum, lying on the front seat of my own car, with a blanket covering them, and the door unlocked.  All day long, drunk, white-boy fuck-tards would stop their cars at my driveway, which I had blocked with a car, so as to keep them from driving into my lot.  The passenger would yell at me, “Hey, asshole, move that fucking car.”  “Do you have a reservation, Sir?”  “FUCK YOU.”  “No, fuck YOU.”  I’m pretty sure that the owners of the restaurant never fully appreciated my contribution to the safety of our employees and customers and the non-destruction of our premises, for which I was wholly responsible.  The occasional car-load of revelers would find a place to park in the neighborhood, and careen down the street and through my lot.  One time, I was standing by my car, ready to open the door and grab my shotgun, when about 6 assholes rolled through.  One of them yelled at me, “You got any fucking money?”  “Nah, I don’t have any fucking money.”  If they could have found parking, Main Street, Seal Beach would have been replicated, and I would have been forced to use my riot gun.

Every single one of those seven years, some masochistic, usually SHORT, “bottom” in a homosexual relationship (a gay receiver), would roll into the restaurant around 10:30 P.M. (I didn’t park his car), when the place had cleared out a skoshi bit, and yell, “FUCK THE IRISH.”  He would be dutifully and indubitably rendered unconscious, in a surprisingly short amount of time.  One year we had FIVE separate fights going on at the same time.  We just ignored them and they eventually resolved themselves.

Ya gotta be nuts if you go “out” for Saint Patrick’s Day.  Get drunk at home.

Identical twin nigger pimps?

Nobody could make this shit up and, if I haven’t seen it or done it, it’s probably never happened.  Driving a cab, in Lake Tahoe, wasn’t just a job, it was an adventure.  Taking dudes to the legal Nevada whore houses, people doing Peruvian Marching Powder in the back seat, driving in a white-out, almost running into a 150 pound mountain lion, there was never a dull moment.  There was a section, on the California side, right on the state line, we called the “Complex,” where over 100 motels were packed into about one square mile.  I took a call, one night, to a street address in the Complex.  Upon arriving, I saw that it was a duplex with, of course, two separate dwelling units, A and B.  I called my dispatcher and asked him which unit called.  He said he didn’t know which one, and to knock on one of the doors.  I walked onto the very large porch, which covered the whole front of the building, and knocked on door number A.  The door opened, and an early twenty-something, small black man, dressed in a gold lame’ pimp suit, opened the door.  He was bling city, with ear-rings, gold bracelets, necklaces, rings, and what-not.  I said, “Taxi,” and he said, “They’re next door.”  I thanked him and knocked on door number B.  That door was opened by what I thought was the same dude, who was wearing all the same gear.  I didn’t say a word, just looked at him, as he looked at me.  Finally, I said, “Taxi?”, and he said, “They’ll be right out.”  I thought the dude was mental, and backed up several steps, to wait for “they” to come out.  I was 10 or 12 feet from the open door, in which the guy was standing.  I glanced to the left, and door A was still open, with the first of the identical twin, identically dressed twin nigger pimps, still standing there.  Door B had #2 pimp standing in the open doorway, as well.  Identical twin pimps, in matching gold lame’ pimp suits, in fucking stereo.

Two spectacularly beautiful hookers, one white and one black, came out, and I took them to one of the casinos.  Both were petite and very good looking.  The fare was $1.95 and the cunts gave me a nickel tip.  I had both of them, together, in my cab, a few more times, in the next week, including to and from a supermarket, for food, as the duplex had kitchens, I guess.  The fare to the store was also $1.95 with that ginormous nickel tip.  After a week, the blonde bailed and I never saw her again.

About a week after the white girl left, there was a one-column-inch blurb, in the local paper, about a hooker doing “trick-rolls” on high-rollers, in one of the (un-named) casinos.  No description, NOTHING.  There were one or two more sketchy notes, in the days that followed, then they finally included a description, “Young, very good looking, black chick.”  BINGO.  I called the South Lake Tahoe PD and asked to speak to the Watch Commander.  A Sergeant came on and I asked him if he had read that day’s paper.  He said he hadn’t but that there was one in the station, and told me to hang on.  He came back and I told him to turn to page 3, at the bottom of the page.  He read about the chloral hydrate, to knock out the mark, so she could relieve him of cash, chips, and gold Rolex watch.  I told the Sergeant the exact address where the babe could be found, and about the identical twin pimps, and he was suitably impressed:  “Man, I’ve never even HEARD of anything like that.  I’d sure like to see THAT [the pimps].”  About two hour later, the Sergeant and about 20 other cops, from two states and several different agencies, rolled up on the duplex, with NO WARRANT (cops are stupid).  They contacted the pimps, who claimed that the broad wasn’t there and they didn’t even know “da bitch.”  The cops all left, but returned the following morning, WITH A WARRANT.  This time there were like 20 CARS, with 40 cops, parked on lawns and in the middle of the street.  They all dicked around for about 20 minutes, before they knocked on the door.  SURPRISE, they had crawled out a rear window (nobody was watching the back), climbed a fence with their baggage, and had the clerk at the motel (which owned the duplex) call a taxi-cab for them.  Dumb-assed cops.  The cops asked the clerk if he knew where they were going.  RENO AIRPORT.

A single NHP Trooper pulled over the cab, on Highway 50, at Spooner Summit, and proned the three knee-grows out, on the pavement, for 20 minutes, at the point of a shotgun, until backup arrived.  By this time, they knew who all three of them were, including the girl.  It turns out that she was an escape artist, having busted out of TWO jails.  It was decided to book the pimps in Carson City but, because the girl was an escape risk, she was transported to Reno, to be booked into the Washoe County Jail, which was thought to be more secure than the women’s facility in Carson.  SHE BUSTED THE FUCK OUT OF JAIL IN RENO.  About two years later, in the L.A. Times, there was a short article about that same girl, name (which I then knew) the same, and about how she had busted out of a FOURTH jail, in Texas.

I was supposed to get a commendation from the Chief of Police, but never got it.  One cop told me he had seen MY commendation, on the Chief’s desk, along with several others, but the asshole never signed it.

I’ve got about 10,000 of these stories, all true, and I don’t even embellish them.  Tune in next week; same Bat Channel, same Bat Time.



I was a participant in the 1965 Watts Riot.

Reprinted from another blog.

  1. Yawn. Just another good ol’ nigger race riot. Saw my first one, in person, in ’65, in Watts. I was a walking arsenal and, when the celebrants saw that I was a honkey with whom they had better not mess, I was suddenly the only person still standing on South Central Avenue, at the corner of 52nd Street, for two blocks in both directions. It is the #1 most amazing “stupid human (sic) trick” that I have ever seen. Niggers see guns; niggers instantly disappear. I mean it, they INSTANTLY DISAPPEAR. The next morning I saw it happen again. I was following an L.A. Sheriff’s car, with four deputies in it, which had FOUR 12 gauge shotguns sticking out the four respective windows, pointing up at 45 degree angles. A mob of about 15 niggers, standing on the S-E corner of Florence Avenue and South Central Avenue, took one look at 4 shotguns and went up in smoke. It’s fucking amazing; I have no idea how they do it.

      • You’ll notice I said L.A. Sheriffs and NOT the chicken-shit L.A.P.D. The Sheriffs were kicking ass, but then they were always savages, while the boys in blue retreated to their stations, on Wednesday night, the night it started, bolted the doors, put 6 guys on the roof with shotguns, and sent out for sandwiches and pizza. They did not come back out of their stations until Saturday night, after Midnight, when the Nation Guard finally hit the street. Chicken-shit motherfuckers, every damned one. I worked for ADT Protection Services, and we had the alarms on every pawn shop, liquor store, and furniture store (TVs) from the GIANT Sears store and warehouse, at Olympic and Soto, to the Pacific Ocean, in Long Beach. WE went, where the GD cops were AFRAID to go. Friday night and Saturday morning, I was by myself, in my own car, a ’65 VW Bug. Believe me, those people were smart enough not to fugg with me. When the looting and burning began on Friday night, I was in our Central Office, in Huntington Park. An alarm came in from one of our subscribers, and I hit a time-stamp on an alarm card, and pulled the card out of our file, which gave the info on the premises. I handed both cards to my supervisor and he just set them on the desk, without picking up our direct line to the LAPD central communications center. I said, “Aren’t you going to dispatch the bulls?” He said, “Haven’t you tried doing it yet?” I said, “No.” He said, “Try it.” I picked up the phone, it automatically started ringing, the Sergeant in charge of the whole operation answered after one ring, and I said, ” I’ve got a 4-5-9 Silent, with a man on the way, to XXXX S. Main, XYZ Jewelry and Loan.” The Sergeant didn’t say a single word, he just started laughing hysterically, and continued to laugh for about 20 seconds before I quietly replaced the phone.

    • Please elaborate sir, stories of the old days are very interesting and possibly educational. Some of us have never, ever dealt with anything like this.

      • And, unfortunately, almost no one else has ever dealt with this or “anything like this,” and they don’t believe me when I relate these experiences, and other extreme examples of depraved behavior that I’ve witnessed. Most people haven’t experienced even one situation that was 1/10th as vivid as I have experienced THOUSANDS of times. Having never experienced anything remotely like I’ve experienced, they think I’m making it all up. I wish I was that clever, then I could be a best-selling fiction writer but, alas, I have absolutely NO facility for making shit up.

      • Thank you for the vote of confidence; it is most appreciated. There is an infinite amount of lies and BS swirling around us, so I can see where some would be sceptical of my experiences. Among many other things, I’ve been in the middle of TWO COMMIE RIOTS, one in Valparaiso, Chile and the other in Balboa (Panama City), Panama. I just missed another commie demonstration, on May Day, 1963, in Kobe, Japan. I understand the Japanese are much more civilized, unlike the assholes in Chile, who stomped police dogs to death.