Archive for the ‘Cops’ Category

Dear Lonely Psycho Patient,

I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you please stop stalking me?

I’m a professional. I understand it’s common for patients to form crushes on nurses they see on a regular basis, but seriously, dude, it’s not a date.

Gently rebuffing you hasn’t helped, so here are some tips:

  1. Just because I’m not wearing a wedding ring doesn’t mean I’m available. I live with my boyfriend and I made this clear the first time you caught me off guard and asked me out on a date (note to self: go buy a cheap wedding band to wear to work….might save me some trouble in the future…)
  2. Staring at me for 4 solid hours, three days a week does NOT make you seem more attractive, it does NOT make me want you, and quite frankly, it just pisses me off. Go to sleep, read a book, or watch TV, for Christ’s sake!!
  3. Stop calling me at work for stupid stuff. I’M BUSY!! If you need something, tell me while you’re there. And stop “dropping by” the unit (especially while you’re high) on your off days.
  4. In case you haven’t noticed, I have other patients. I don’t care what you did “in the service” 10 years ago. Oh, and if you intend to pursue this LIE, pick a branch instead of saying “Oh, you know, for America”. Even I know it’s the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, etc. Put in a little effort, idiot!!
  5. I know what your car looks like. How many times are you going to wait for me to get off work and try to follow me home? Haven’t you figured out by now that I’m going to drive straight to the police station if I see you? If you really want to know, borrow a car and stay back a little. Jesus! Didn’t you learn how to use stealth in the service? Oh yeah, that didn’t actually happen…..my bad.
  6. Stop telling me every day that I look pretty. I already know that.
  7. Just a recommendation: re-direct this wasted energy you’re spending on me to get a haircut, shave, and, oh, shower, maybe? Perhaps move out of your parents house? Then you can get a real girlfriend that’s NOT ME!!

In closing, I’d just like to say that even though you’re twice my size, I’m not scared of you. I’ve been a nurse for 14 years and faced up to bigger, meaner, and smarter than you. That “penlight” in my pocket is a taser and I’m aiming for your balls if you get too close.

Back off, and fast, before I get you a prescription for one foot up your ass…..mine.


Your Dialysis Nurse, Rio Brown


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Dear Drug Dealer Downstairs,

Could you put some kind of embargo on our building? I would feel much safer if you told your clients to stear clear of my humble abode. Feel free to tell them my dog is rabid, or I am an officer of the law, or that we kidnap homeless people and perform experiments in the name of science. Any such a lie will suffice.

I understand you have to make ends meet, and you seem to do well for yourself. Many times I have marveled at your brand new SUV and nice ties. Maybe you do not have any other marketable skills. Maybe you enjoy what you do, and that truly is a wonderful feeling.

But I would be heartbroken to come home and find my brand new HDTV missing, while the homeless man on the corner is passed out while wearing an abnormally large smile.

So please, let them know that my apartment is off limits. I would appreciate it.

Sam, Upstairs

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Dear guy with the blinged and chromed out green Tahoe:

Can I ask you a question?

How big is your brain?

The reason I’m asking is because you obviously don’t know how to take a hint that you’re not wanted on my street.

I am insanely sick and tired of you driving less than a block to visit my other stupid neighbor. You park your ridiculously large SUV in their parking lot, open the doors, and play your music so loud that the windows in my apartment shake. And I’m across the street.

My fiance and I have tried to be polite. We go across the street and ask you nicely to turn it down. You must be deaf from listening to your music so loud, because you turn it down for about .05 seconds, and by the time we go back inside, there it is again – the BOOMBOOMBOOMCHICKABOOMBOOM. Other neighbors have asked you to turn it down as well. You ignore their requests as well.

I call the police every time you show up. Most of the time, you end up leaving before they show up. However, the past few times you have been confronted by a police officer. You must think they sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher because you are deaf as a railroad post. An intelligent person would eventually get the hint that no one wants you around, but you keep coming over. Your friend must have a teensy brain too, because they keep inviting you over.

If this keeps up I will have to take evasive action. This is your final warning. I will take my Scion xB, which has a pretty impressive stereo system all its own, drive down to your place, and start playing my stereo in front of your house. Trust me, you haven’t expanded your musical boundaries nearly enough. How about some Robyn Hitchcock in your window at 2 a.m., some Sex Pistols at 5 a.m., and to wrap things up, I’ll toss in some Tom Jones at 8 a.m. for that Welsh wake-up call.

What’s new, pussycat,

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Jeff, your friendly neighborhood dealer

One of the great myths about Las Vegas is that prostitution is legal here. Let me assure you, it’s not. That still doesn’t explain why you can let your fingers do the walking and order a hooker directly from the Yellow Pages. “Alright sir, I’ve got a large pepperoni and a blow job. Be about forty minutes.” They can be found under “Entertainers” in the phone book.

Of course they’re not listed as prostitutes. They are “Full Service Hostesses,” or “Exotic Dancers,” and my personal favorite, the ever popular “Strip-O-Gram.” Naturally I have never availed myself the services of any of these perpetrators of pleasure. I did however, meet two young ladies when they came south from Reno in search of employment. I had taken a break from dealing some years ago and drove a limo for about six months.

I picked up Jasmine and Rosebud at the airport after the Mustang Ranch was closed down due to some tax troubles. The girls were “laid off” as it were, and decided to come to Vegas to ply their trade. But these Ladies of the Evening, Morning, and Afternoon found they didn’t have enough ready cash for their own full page “spread” in the phone book so they took the low road. But they were high class. Instead of walking the Fremont Street corridor and enjoying the company of two dollar blackjack players at ten bucks a crack, they bathed themselves in the lights of Caesar’s Palace and The Mirage searching for the elusive five dollar high rollers.

After a few weeks of battling the competition and two arrests, the girls went into private practice by tacking a flyer to the bulletin board of a local YMCA. The girls began entertaining their clients in the back of my limo as I drove the streets and highways of Sin City, taking extra care to avoid all speed bumps, curbs, and Taco Bell drive-thru’s.

The hardest part of course, was trying to drive from the back seat.

Rantasaurus Says: It’s a brilliant idea. Two rides at the exact same time.

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Beer Rant

Josh G, angry and smelly

Last night was one of the best live sporting events I’ve ever been to. My company sent me to a playoff game between the Mavericks and my beloved Golden State Warriors. We pulled out the victory of course, but here is one thing I could have done without.

I’m going crazy, yelling, cheering, having fun with everyone, but not in a drunk obnoxious sort of way. I didn’t have enough cash on me for beer, so I was able to enjoy myself sober. I think I was the only one, but I was just fine with it.

Why, then, did a beer come flying out of nowhere and smack me in the face, then proceed to spill down my shirt and pants?

I am less than excited getting back on BART smelling like a fucking bum’s backwashed 40 leftovers from your stank ass cup, Mr. Beer Hurler.

I’m sitting there thinking about how I’d like to take a hot iron prod to your char-grilled face so that your head cheese resembles a culo death bilonker fondue parade, and I know full well why no one wants to stand within 5 feet of me.

I get in my car at the end of the BART trip and start driving. Lo and behold, the cops have nothing better to do than pull me over. Clearly, the smell of said booze is infiltrating their collective canals and my pants are about to have a chocolate party.

I take a sobriety test because your drunk ass couldn’t hang onto the drink. I know exactly how expensive those beers were, so I have no idea why you spent it on me. I hope you’re sucking suck a jilted nut bust silo while I’m explaining to a 3rd cop why I am covered in beer and reeking of Bud Light.

The Warriors cap saved me, I tell you, but it won’t save you next time you try to throw your beverage.

Rantasaurus Says: Same thing happened to me a few weeks back. The cops pulled me over and I kept trying to tell them… I reek like booze because I’ve been drinking for 27 hours straight.

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