I don't have a mate because I'm a workaholic who obsesses on what I do and I get lost inside my brain, and I got tired of putting decent women into a terrible situation. Also, even though I live in Appalachia, I suffer from the fat man's problem of the white trash debutantes have no interest in me, even when I wear a necklace of Oxycontin. They don't think someone should work so hard.

so now I engage in random slutty behavior. I do have good luck with a niche of the divorced jewish princess when I head into the big city.

Sucks, doesn't it?

My brother doesn't have the problem. But, then again, he's got a few tatts now. And, he enjoys being mean to them ... which I think they need from time to time, like adding freon to the airconditioner.






FIXED!!!

It was always interesting to read Cali Marie complaining about no money when hubby OneBadKat was incarcerated. No attempt to work [other than the "dating" ads K1ng found], but lots of whining about not qualifying for Welfare, etc.

A guy who tried to sell me pictures Cali let me take of her [interestingly he was a friend of the hubby] told me all hubby likes to do is drink beer and sleep. Smokey, the guy on this board who claimed to have contracted them for the GFE, if that was his name, confirmed that observation.

No you're right, they seem to be expecting the hard backhand every so often.
Ever have one of them tell you they didn't think you cared because you never hit them? That's the special moment when you realize you're an alien.



oh fuck, you're right.

No. But, I have had them tell me that the guy doing the verbal abuse or emotional damage NEEDED them more. And, thus it was only a projection of his far deeper NEED for them.

I've only had one ex-girlfriend who told me about any "Ray Rice" type incident. And, that was by her soon to be ex-husband years after we dated.

Likely because the others aren't attracted to me AT ALL in the first place.

I had a girl punch me in the face once. She instantly recoiled back like she was expecting a counter punch and seemed upset that I didn't hit her back. The relationship didn't last much longer, which was probably a good thing. She woulda wound up in the hospital and I would've ended up in jail.

I had a bit of a meltdown at the Union City Post Office this afternoon.

That PO is FULL of incompetents who want to do no work.

I was in there about 1:30PM. There were 9 people ahead of me. Only one of the seven or nine windows open. Besides the employee at molasses pace at the window there were 5-7 milling about inside, looking busy, doing NOTHING!

I'm the only white male customer in the Post Office. The rest are Hispanic. I think I might be the only citizen. Certainly the only one born in the US.

So I open my mouth, "WHY is only one window open when there are like TEN of you doing NOTHING?!?!?"

NOW they open two more windows and a supervisor comes out to see if she can move the line along.




My turn at the window. Once again an employee of this post office refuses to lift my package because "it's too heavy". I heard this over and over when I would mail books before I moved. But, they aren't too heavy. There limit is 70 lbs. This box didn't weigh 40!

Now she's asking questions and comes up with some technically that she can't accept the package as media mail. I show her the info from the net on my phone that she's wrong.

There is a supervisors' meeting. The three stooges decide that the internet information is wrong and their training is right. The refuse my package. I ask for their names. All they will give me are first names .... and there are more than one of them with each name!

After I rant loudly calling them incompetent inferior human beings, I take my package and leave. I shove it into my Dad's car, we drive it all the way back to Queens and EASILY get it accepted at the Little Neck Auxiliary PO right off the LIE.

FUCKING POSTAL TROLLS!!!!!

Should have video taped em on yer phone and gotten 7 On Your Side. Cost some of them fucks pension and health insurance.

Postal police. That makes it federal. Consequences will never be the same.

Seriously tho, that's a fucked up tale. if the shit was too heavy, how the fuck did you get it in the place? Since I discovered package pickup my life is much easier. Doesn't work for Media Mail, tho.

I didn't threaten anyone, I just ranted about incompetence and why the post office was going bankrupt. But, you always run the risk that the employees might embellish ... sadly it's a post 9-11, no rights, world.


It wasn't too heavy. The limit is 70 lbs. I just checked the receipt from the other PO location and it was 38 [I told her 40-45, so I'm getting old, so 38 feel more like 45]. If she can't do the job, get another job!!


The last time I dealt with the Union City PO and this freakin' Chinese clerk I had a similar problem. Before I moved I put together a priority mail flat rate box of my dumbbell free weights. I used lots of Staples' version of Elmer's glue and Costco packing taped the entire surface of the box. It wasn't going to break open.

Based on the sum of discs, it weighed 57 lbs.

I was lazy. I didn't move it to my storage. I had the movers move it down the 7 set of steps from my walkup. Thus when I had the space allocated and the inclination to use them, I would ship the weights to FL. I would have them ready to go in my storage.

Last spring I when I was up in NY, it was time. I printed a label with postage [as you know, cheaper + free tracking], went to the storage, taped it to the box and brought it to the PO to drop off.

They made me wait on line and then the Chinese clerk told me it was "too heavy." I said it would weigh less than 60 lbs and the ads for the flat rate box says 70 lbs max. After 10 minutes of back and forth discussions, they accepted it.

Sadly for the other mailers, she just shoved the box from her scale into the mail bin, likely crushing other peoples' stuff. You could hear it hit the other parcels.

I HATE that bitch clerk and that PO location!!!

Ray Rice you are not.
Obviously she is making that suicidal move because it is the ultimate way for her to tell you she is not happy with you. Most times she is mad for illogical reasons and so that is why you withhold your punch back. Of course if she has logical reasons, then it is your fault too.

^^^ No, she was batshit crazy. We were out back having a smoke on her back steps and she burst into tears and jumped into my arms for no apparent reason. After asking what's up, she claimed she was communicating with my dead brother who wanted me to acknowledge his presence and accept his apology for something. I told her I couldn't see him, so I would instead acknowledge the wild bush growing in her back yard and accept its apology. Then she clocked me.

As far as hitting her back, her two young kids were sleeping just inside. A few hours later, she drove them to school drunk while I was passed out on the couch. Every woman I meet is a fucking train wreck.

Hmmm I think I see the problem here. Fatman needs to learn the lessons of Kahlil Gibran

Angries Out!

I am being serious here.

Wow! Uhhh it sounds like she was going to confess that she fucked your brother before he died and wanted to have mad passionate makeup sex with you as her way of settling the matter.
Of course like all men - you made a faux pas and set the terms right away on sex instead of dragging the dirty little secret slowly out of her. Now she is under no obligation (in her mind) to ever tell you the secret.

Mothers teach their daughters this trick everyday.

Open All Night! Advice - 5 cents

Ugh. The woman is ugly.

Plus, she looks nothing like Kahlil Gibran.

Decent flight back. 1/2 hour early arrival. The entire row to myself ... both sides!

I like the earliest flight out because LGA is a NIGHTMARE if there is a delay of any kind. Not enough seats.

Annoyance on the TSA line.

First a cute blonde girl in an Aussie hat who I was staring at got angry because I ended up ahead of her. She likely only noticed me because I was staring as we approached each other on the snaking lines.

Suddenly she noticed I was no longer staring but getting my boarding pass checked against my ID. I was at least 15 people behind her. For some reason -- line getting too long? -- a non-TSA security guard motioned some of us to go to the "premium" TSA line so I ended up about 5 people ahead of her.

Cute blondie was unhappy. She noted me when complaining about this random shortcut.

But, the worst was the pig behind me. First she refused to take of her shoes. She retorted she didn't need too. They asked for proof of age. Though she looked it, she wasn't old enough. After she took off her shoes, she refused to wait near the luggage scanner. The floor was too cold was the excuse.

My bag wasn't going thru quickly. My carry-on was FULL of metal, 99.99% coins of one type or another I retrieved from storage. From bus tokens to Mexican Pesos, from laundry tokens to Buffalo Nickels, from silver oz bars to Proof Franklin Half dollars, from parking tokens to an all-but-perfect silver crown dated 1484.

She complained about the delay in getting her luggage, trapped behind my carry-on. She then became a bit abusive ... like someone I know did at the Post Office recently. It wasn't received as well.

After they decided to clear my bag without opening it [in the past they've opened the bad to examine clumps of coins, last time 1960s uncirculated Canadian cents], there was a bit of excitement.

The TSA agent asked me if her bag was mine. Before I could answer, she claimed it and tried to leave the check point. THAT was a problem. She had a water bottle in her bag or something. They were very, very unhappy she touched the bag, let alone attempted to leave.

Though I don't think she understood that they had an issue until they grabbed her when leaving.

I collected my stuff and left. Last I saw of her, two agents flanked her and there was to be a complete inspection of her stuff.

Luckily for me they missed something I missed in my bag. Deep in a box of coins in holders there was an artifact I once won in a auction that should not have passed TSA inspection though it isn't very dangerous.

It is a long bronze Roman nail found in Jerusalem. Happily my collectable went unseized.

I think the obnoxious porcine woman behind me saved that nail from confiscation.

There's a South Park "Jew gold" joke in this, for sure.

What do I know?

She screams at me, “Where is he? Where is my husband?” I calmly say, “I don’t know.”

A husband calls. “Does she have the kids? Are they still at Trinity Church?” Again, I don’t know.

My father asks me, “Is your sister still contracted to Cantor-Fitzgerald? Where is she working today? Why doesn’t she answer her phone?!?” I don’t know.

Henry the CEO inquires, "Will our life insurance will pay out for any of our staff killed? Or, is this considered an act of war?" I don't know.

Fred queries through sobs, “Does the building collapse mean my boyfriend is crushed in the rumble of the PATH station below?” I don’t know.

It occurs to Nicol that we have witnessed the sudden and total disintegration of the offices of our sole client before our very eyes. She ponders, “How does this impact payroll next week? Will I have enough money for rent?” I don’t know.

Will this event force our struggling firm into bankruptcy? When I close the gate over the doors tonight will they be closed forever? Will those who keep their lives lose their jobs? I don’t know.

I am responsible for more than 120 people. 93 are missing. Unaccounted for. Are they safe? Are they hurt? Are they even alive? When, if ever, will I know? I don’t know.

The dark and ponderous specter of that once promising, sunny Tuesday will haunt me as long as I have brain cells that are chemically active.

THAT is ALL I know.

I hope we get some of the answers on 9/12.

Horrible story, Fatman. I only knew a couple people who worked for Morgan Stanley in the second tower, and they booked immediately after the first one was hit.

As a sports fan, my most vivid memory after 9/11 was Mike Piazza's dramatic, heroic home run on 9/21. After that it was watching the next big boxing match somewhere overseas and the camera zoomed in on a guy with a giant oversized foam hat on with the American flag on it, waving around an oversized foam hand making the, "I'm number 1!" sign. I had to wonder out loud how anyone could hate us.

Same, what an epic bomb. Total drama. Let's go Mets!

Horrible as is you didn't like it? Or you were able to feel how horrible I felt on 11 Sept 2001?




My sister lost so, so many. I recall doing a count against her wedding guest list from 1996. I counted 12. My brother says it was 15 or 16. I've never asked her.

She trained dozens of people at CF who died. Her boss died. So, so many ...

My memory of it starts with the epic "New York, New York" from Liza at the 7th inning stretch ... the first responder kick-line ... and the Jay Patton hug.





Fuckin' Piazza could be so clutch ...

I worked with a guy who was an Engineer at the World Trade Center. On 911 he sent his assistant to a meeting he had in one of the towers in his place so he could go get drunk and pop pain pills instead. The assistant died leaving a wife and newborn kid. The engineer had a nervous break down. He couldn't hold a job, got divorced and ended up being a flagger on the road crew. He drank and popped so many pills his liver went and he croaked. He was quite the annoying little fucker. Think irish Brandon with ronald mcdonald hair always down and complaining about what a worthless piece of shit he was. I used to encourage him to suicide(jokingly but serious) but the liver gave out first. In a way I guess he did suicide slowly.

There's hope for J.B. after all.

And, hope for you, too, GreyDog!

I fully understood that post!




FatWh..R out!

I felt how horrible you felt.

The story itself was well written and conveyed the hopelessness and confusion of the situation. More like a poem than a story really.

This made my heart hurt.

Thx. And it is a hybrid of poem and prose.

Man that day sucked. I didn't leave my desk until every employee was accounted for and had a place to stay [if they were trapped in the city like me]. I think I got to the Williamsburg bridge about 6PM going to my best friend's house where I showered off cement dust and ash I didn't even notice I accumulated and coated my skin and colored my hair a sickly grey.

My last memory of the day is being in my buddy's backyard in Williamsburg after sunset and partially burned memos snowing down. I think he still has them. Some things I just can't collect.

The next few months sucked, too.

My main memories was the stench of the smoking rubble. I still believe I have the ashes of victims trapped in my lungs.

The Saturday afterwards I had a meeting to go to in College Point. From the NJ Turnpike, through the Exit 13 toll booths, over the Goethals Bridge, across the Staten Island Expressway (1 lane closed for government vehicles and dump trucks), over the Verrazano Bridge, and up the BQE was basically one long funeral procession. Everyone just stuck in traffic, staring at the smoke and lights. Morbid.

I was on a motorcycle, weaving in and out, using exit lanes and merge lanes and it still took me over 3 hours to get there.

WOW!!

On the 12th, I went into the city. The L train [which I still call the "Canarsie Line"] seemed to run normally, but no 4/5/6/1/2/3/A/C/E/B/D/F/N/R/Q/W below 14 some not below 34. The issue was getting below 14th Street without having ID as a resident.

My buddy and I just bluffed our way. It was much more difficult to get back to the office which was near Canal Street.

We wandered west to the highway where most people just cheered every vehicle that passed in each direction. I thought it silly to cheer a dumptruck full of concrete or a flatbed of crushed cars.

My cute Czech assistant called crying to say she didn't set the phone system correctly "no one knows we were closed!!," as the CEO put it.

I thought they had to be morons not to know we were closed. But, he wanted the kid gone if she didn't fix it. Cap'n save-a-ho-who-wasn't-ever-going-to-fuck-with-him-not-even-a-handjob came to the rescue and opted to get his fat butt to the office and turn on the system message.

Getting near Canal Street was interesting.

Army or National Guard stopped me at Houston with no problem. Spring was a bit of an issue, but they let me pass. I was accosted by a HumVee patrol when lifting the gate that exposed the locked doors to the office building.

I sat surrounded by 3 men with heavy guns while the lieutenant awaited instructions on whether I could enter the offices. I still can see their HumVee in my mind's eye. About as wide as Crosby street itself.

Once approved and inside, I recorded the message [I was later criticized both for mumbling and the use of sarcasm] set the system to play it instead of our "welcome" message, grabbed someone's backpack that was left in the closet, filled it with 8 or 9 Guinness-in-a-can-with-a-ping-pong-ball, left and locked up.

I actually met up with the HumVee squad. They wouldn't take the offered Stout.

My brother in law was working for Chase at the time and had to get back to Jersey on one of the ferries being used to triage the wounded. He's never started a conversation about it, so I never brought it up.

I'll never forget when GWB flew over my house on the way to Ground Zero. They landed AirForce 1 at McGuire, then he got in a chopper to get to NYC. There was a pack of 6 helicopters in attack formation flying low, loud and fast. When I heard em, I thought WTF?, then I looked up and knew what it was. I waved. They were maybe 200' off the ground, I guess to fly under radar. Only thing I've seen fly that low around here is a Stealth, but that was much, much quieter and slower.

Looking back I could see many A-rabs hearing that noise, peeking their heads out, and shitting their pants seeing them in the air, much less if they had guns blazing.

Where were you that you living that you had so many Arabs?

Jersey City? Paterson?


There weren't many in Weehawken and the Muslim community in Union City, small then, kept a low profile.

I meant in the impending wars. My town is 90+% white.

I misunderstood. My apologies.

Hey whatever happened to this book?

That almost sounds like paradise except its New Jersey.

Wow! That's an oldie. Spring/Summer of 2007??

The psycho-pharm lost interest. He never lived up to his part. Barely gave me an outline. He read the first instalment. Loved it and made some good notes and set up some meetings.

He never came to the meeting. The other meetings were postponed because of his schedule. To my knowledge, he never read another thing I gave him.

Part of it was that in October 2007 I entered a full-service out-patient program at Roosevelt Hospital, so I couldn't see him for 6 months. There was no "outside" therapy allowed.

The program worked out fairly well for me. Not so much for most of the others. According to one of my fellow patients, only three of us 20-25 are left alive. Most of the group was CAMI [also classified MICA, CA = Chemically Addicted, MI = Mentally Ill].

It is not usual for me to be more enthusiastic about another's idea than they are. Most people who propose projects aren't prepared for the work that goes into them.

Part of it was that I'm not an addict. The publisher was much more interested in the lurid details of the vivid descent endemic to overcoming addiction than mental illness. There seems to be something voyeuristic or whatever about looking into the world of the addict for many.

The struggles of the mentally ill ... not so much.

Lastly and most importantly he really didn't write well. Which was a surprise, because he spoke well. I thought I just might be too critical or something until his buddy told me that his stuff was complete shit.

In the fall of 2008 when I became Medicare eligible I changed to St. Vincent's and over time lost contact with him.



Currently I'm working on a novel to entertain my buddy. He's a believer in the 9/11 conspiracies. So, it's a fictional historic novel that tries to ties all the disparate crackpot theories into a dramatic tale.

But, that's not going to see the light of any publisher.

I start it with a CIA figure, based on a real person we both know, walking a LI beach with the narrator the day after Flight 800 crashed.

I'm using his "version" of the 9/11 stuff, which has lots to do with the Rothschilds and the Federal Reserve Bank for some reason. But, my buddy keeps adding to it. Now the Ukraine crash with the Dutch on board is another brick in this wall. And, Sandy Hook, is part of it, too.

Is that considered fan fiction?

Can I get a copy of the manuscript? He'll I'll edit for you.

The old manuscript or the new one I've started?

The old one I likely have it on disk still. Somewhere. But, it's only my side. The point of the book was for me to put out my experiences and him to comment on it from the psych side, to say why they did what they did, how it's changed, etc. So, it's got no real merit.

Only thing my town has less of than non whites is sidewalk. Only in McMansion developments.

Don't be so sure. Conspiracy theorists love that shit. If it reads well, they'll be quoting from it.

They all tie together through a pact between the Illuminati and the Daytime Vampires. With assistance from the Chubb Group.

I'd say what I'm up to, but there is no need.

I have a direct backchannel to Putin. He knows my every move.

Whassap, Fatty?

He must have seen Gia was getting close to his post count, so he stopped in for a quick 1000.

Naw. The TWINS turned 30. Couldn't let that go unacknowledged.

Who else would leave flowers at their altar?

UP is the direction away from the center of the Earth.