Thursday, August 1, 2013

Dear Mr. Mafia Mayor

I don't write blog. Pam and Kelly killed me last night. Go to hell, all of you Californians. "Fit for a nuking," I say often, and will continue to say in public or private life. Now that I've made "nice-nice" with the mayor's office, following California Communist Central Committee tradition, the nice bike cop will give me a ticket for sleeping on the sidewalk tonight, but no other creatures will be cited, because they are all high, drunk, and paying for sex with their SSI windfall.


Questions I won't ask in-person:
1. How many times did I mention my Food Stamp card as my only asset, and no one told me the Chevron accepts EBT?
2. Why was I unable to walk a block a few days prior? (No food, no water, malnourished, and the bus drivers lie--a lot. No groceries on their route? Google found three stores).
3. Any other city where a man can ask, "Anybody know where a grocery store is?" dozens of times, an the f--king computer told me it is 3 blocks away? Friendly town, sir! 
4. The pay phone? "Given up," by a homeless woman so ill she was next seen in a wheelchair pushed by her also physically debilitated Vet partner. Sickening. Really sickening. And I am the "bad guy?" Go to hell, sir. 
5. How do you know when Hughes has a near heat stroke? I wanted to be a cop today after being pestered greatly as a kid i.e. "He'd make Sergeant in no time," or "He'd end up a detective." Too late for cop school, but as I finally had $24 worth of junk food I watched one cop get his lunch at the Taco stand, and another at Subway. I was jealous in a not schizophrenic way. I don't know why. Then, when the cop came in the flatbed , we had a scintillating discussion on DUI policies and procedures. Did I mention I'm getting drunk and picking up New Hampshire females this Winter? Don't miss out, N.E. factory girls!
6. Now I'm cursing and carrying on at Michelle Obama too, because...
7. I count seven layers of cops, and how many miles on cop cars per crime stopped in progress, LA City Fathers? They drive around a lot as the mental cases holler in the night. Sometimes I raise my voice too, as with, "You stinky cop! Don't you dare get out of that car!" I'm ashamed of myself, until I win the New Hampshire Primary big, then try to quit and move to Canada. Border closed? Big terror event? I had nothing to do with it, my ESP/STP tells me, as does hard evidence that will be ignored, I am sure. {The Seven Rays/Seven layers of protection: 1. Safety Patrol; 2. Security Guard; 3. Amtrak Cop; 4. Transit Cop; 5. LAPD; 6. LA Deputy; 7. CHP.} Feel safe? The mayor's staff could bring a sleeping bag. No?  


I am not your "brother," but I am sure mine was MURDERED by Mafia.
I am not your "buddy," I'd like to kick your ass but good. Thus, I'll be meeting my new, nasty, kill you fast martial arts instructor. I'm "quick," your thugs have proclaimed, so I might as well save the cost and waiting period of a firearm and kill your big, bald, ignorant lunkhead with my own hands. The Secret Service girls already saved me a Dollar Tree buck by gifting hair ties to ponytail the stringy, increasingly dirty not Rasta Man mess. Got free shampoo at the Hilton?


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