My girlfriend and I have a lot in common, but we work in different worlds. One day, on my way to her office, I saw a BMW with a personalized license plate: ATRNY4U.

“A Tranny for You?” I laughed my ass off. Images of the hordes of 300-pound transgendered hookers, bulging out of their miniskirts and always loitering near my office, flashed through my mind. “Not for this kid,” I muttered to myself.

Later, when I picked my lady up from work, I chuckled as I told her about the most bizarre personalized license plate I’d ever seen: “Guess what? I saw the craziest license plate on the way here,” I told her. “A-T-R-N-Y-4-U.”

She digested the letters, then turned to me with a quizzical look. “Attorney for You?”

We both laughed when I told her what my interpretation of the license plate was. We have a lot in common, but we work a million miles away from each other.

Tags: lawyers · prostitution · relationships · transgender · work

To the guy who messed up my morning commute:

Never mind that you caused freeway traffic to come to a complete standstill. Never mind that hundreds of people, myself included, lost precious hours of our lives in a frustrating, road-rage inducing traffic jam. That’s life in the big city. We’ll get over the lost time.

Forget the dozens of civil servants summoned to clean up all your nasty little bits and body parts off the highway. They get paid to deal with scumbags like you. But before you jumped off of that freeway overpass, did you stop and consider the emotional wreck you would create when you landed on that poor woman’s windshield as she was cruising down the highway at 65 miles per hour?

The lady in question was minding her own business, trying to get to work, and didn’t deserve to have her car mangled up by your nasty little body. Not only will she most likely suffer from post-traumatic stress, she’s going to have to pay the deductible on her auto insurance to get her car fixed.

Why? Because you decided you couldn’t handle life and decided to tell the world "Fuck you" one last time before checking out? You must have been one selfish, self-absorbed prick in life. I’m glad to have never made your acquaintance.

–The Kimchihead

Tags: death · freeway · suicide · traffic jam

That was a real stupid thing you did to your wrist, kid. If you really wanted to kill yourself, you would have run the blade lengthwise inside your forearm. Instead, you cut across the wrist and instead of dying, all you did was make a mess.

Because you’re not on the midnight train to the big sayonara, you must have failed to Google your suicide method of choice. My guess is that you really didn’t want to die. You just wanted a little bit of attention.

I got news for you, kid: not a whole lot of people really care if you check out or not. That’s the cold, hard truth about life. It goes on with or without you.

Yeah, I know you think you’ve got it tough. I ain’t gonna say that you don’t. I’d feel pretty low, too, if my pops was a three-strike loser doing life in the can and my mom was an ex-prostitute junkie with AIDS. But hey, life ain’t fair. The Man Upstairs might have dealt you some shitty cards, but it’s up to you to make the best of them.

If you’re gonna check out, go ahead and check out. Do us all a favor next time and do it right. But if you’re gonna stick around, knock it off with all the drama. Your attention whoring is costing other people time and money.

Tags: blood · google · suicide

Sorry for the lack of updates. There’s no excuse for the neglect, but I have my reasons.

The details will bore you, so I won’t keep running my mouth. Overtime at my regular job. Moonlighting to supplement my income. A new relationship.

Don’t get me wrong. I still love to write. But I love spending time with the lady. She’s one classy doll. Easy on the eyes. And I’m crazy about her. Unlike the computer monitor I’m staring at right now. Which means I’d rather be looking at her, see?

I’ll be getting around to posting here when I get around to it. But don’t worry. I ain’t throwing in the towel. I still like entertaining all of you crazy mugs.

See ya when I see ya.

Tags: love · relationships · work

She was 17, dating some punk of the same age. The punk had a short rap sheet of petty crimes and criminal acts of idiocy. Typical adolescent bad boy attraction. Rebellion against an inattentive father. Her story: they argued. He punched her three times in the face and kicked her in the gut. She ran away and got in another guy’s car.

The other guy was a 21-year-old “friend.” A chump who always saved the damsel in distress, but never got rewarded for his efforts. A sap with a tear-stained shoulder and a box of never used, never will be used condoms. Captain Save-A-Ho.

Captain Save-A-Ho drove Jail Bait off into the horizon. On the other side of the horizon was my club. They came seeking sanctuary. Save-A-Ho was a regular. I’d never seen Jail Bait around. I inspected her face and her midsection, which was exposed thanks to a skimpy tube top. No bruises. No swelling. No footprint on her gut. Not a fucking scratch. I pulled Save-A-Ho to the side: “I can’t have this jail bait in my joint. Take her to her parents.”

Save-A-Ho tried to explain to me why it would be better to stash the broad in my club. I half listened, watched the broad text messaging non-stop. She took a phone call. Jail Bait covered her mouth while speaking, kept her voice low. I heard: “Is he with her right now?” followed by, “Fucking bastard.”

Moments later, Jail Bait got off the phone, then demurely asked Save-A-Ho, “Can you drive me to the police station?” She wanted to make a report of domestic battery. Put a case on the punk.

They thanked, waved, drove away. I chuckled.

Poor Save-A-Ho. The sap was blind, unable to connect the dots: Jail Bait and Punk were on the outs. Punk found himself a new broad. Jail Bait got jealous, confronted Punk. An argument ensued. Jail Bait stormed away. Later, upon hearing that Punk was with the new chick, Jail Bait decided that revenge would be a false police report.

Facts undigested by Save-A-Ho: the hole in his back window and the lack of injuries on Jail Bait indicated that Punk, while guilty of vandalism, was innocent of battery. Save-A-Ho was an unwitting accessory to Jail Bait’s connivance. He wasn’t a hero. He was a tool.

Tags: domestic violence · nightclub · relationships