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

Recently, I was asked for my thoughts on the death of a young man named Mike Cho. Cho was gunned down by police officers in La Habra, Calif. The only information I had at that time was that Cho made an attempt to strike the cops with a tire iron prior to his expiration.

It sounded like a righteous shooting to me.

I’ve since had some time to find more information about the shooting. Here’s what I’ve learned so far (from words and video): on December 31, 2007 at approximately 2 p.m., police officers were responding to a vandalism call. A surveillance video showed two cops tactically deployed behind the open doors of a police vehicle. The suspect (Mike Cho) walked towards them with a tire iron in his left hand, and a cigarette in his right. Police said that they ordered him to drop the tire iron. Instead, Cho turned approximately 90-degrees to his right and walked away, off camera. Both cops lowered their guns and followed. Off camera, Cho raised the tire iron over his head in a striking position. In response, police officers shot him a total of ten times.

There have been a lot of questions as to why the police did what they did. Why did they have their guns drawn? Why did they have to shoot the kid ten times? Why didn’t they use a taser or some other less-than-lethal weapon?

The answers to those questions are so blatantly obvious (and have been answered in other forums) that I won’t go into them here. Instead, I have questions of my own: why would you approach two guys with a tire iron in hand, especially when their guns are leveled at you? Disturbing to me is the manner with which Cho approached the two cops, puffing on his cigarette. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he didn’t give a fuck. Why? Was Cho on drugs? Was he crazy? Did he commit suicide by cop?

My thoughts on the death of a young man named Mike Cho, for what they’re worth: it was a tragic death, but one the suspect brought upon himself. Unless some new information is released that will sway my opinion otherwise, I’d say that the shooting was righteous.

Note: Check out the Los Angeles Times for an article about the shooting. A Korean language news source showed surveillance video of Cho’s encounter with La Habra police, moments before the shooting. A clip has been posted on YouTube.

Tags: death · la habra · michael cho · police · shooting