Dead Man’s Feet (formerly: Feet Like A Dead Vietcong Soldier)

feetNote to self:  refrain from scrubbing tubs, tables, walls, floors, sinks and buckets over the course of two to three days of delirious stopping and starting under the red hot sun while wearing cotton socks and Nike Running Shoes unless you want to be forcibly and very involuntarily awakened from said delirium purely due to the shock both visual and olfactory of your feet when you finally do have to remove the socks and shoes in order to make it to a prearranged appointment.

I’m sitting in the bathroom on my laptop typing this and I’m still trying to come to grips with how closely the smell inside this small enclosed bathroom matches  the terrifying stench that burned my nasal passages that Thursday morning in September, 2002 at my penthouse in Downtown Long Beach. I allowed a homeless African American drug addict named Kevin to get cleaned up in my bathroom.  I really have no idea what he got up to in my bathroom but I do know the pad smelled like death for days after.

And now I’m starting to panic, hoping that nobody else gets a whiff of the sour, C02 poisoned air  and realizes that I, Anthony X Mandich, am responsible for their discomfort and possible death.  It just would go down like a shit shake and definitely serve to hasten my already imminent “invitation to get the fuck out.”

My feet smelled like rained on rotten trash when I peeled off my shoes and socks a few hours ago.  I washed my feet diligently however the shoes themselves  are still sitting on the tiled floor not three feet from where I hurriedly banging away at this story.

I’m afraid that it will be impossible to wear those shoes again without subjecting myself to an indescribably heinous experience forged in Hell by Satan’s demons especially for my enjoyment.

Fucking gross.

No matter how engrossed  in my work I am, in the future, once the feet get wet and I am wearing socks and Nikes, they need to be taken off and disinfected immediately.  The alternative is bad enough that if John Monceaux, my cousin and the man who owns this house that I call home, happens to walk anywhere near this bathroom before I remove the offending shoes from  the house, I will be homeless once again.

With that being said, I am going to sign off of this post and hopefully rectify the situation voluntarily.  Thanks for reading and stay tuned for stank updates.


An Early Christmas Present Part I

I have to give credit where credit is due.  Just in case anybody reading my blog thought I was a cop hater after my post about that crazy lady cop Lisa Mearkle who shot and killed the dude in the snow, this article should dispel that notion.  The events in question took place less than 24 hours ago and were witnessed by Christina Joy and myself.


First of all I have to come clean and admit that my driver’s license is currently suspended because I have a past due balance with the Department of Child Support Services in Orange County, California.  They never really thought this idea out very well.  In my opinion, suspending the license to drive of people you would presumably like to have out there working, in order to earn the money needed to pay the money they owe you, seems counterproductive but we all know that my opinion doesn’t mean shit so I will just shut the hell up.

Anyhow, I have to get around somehow and I admit that I drive my car with just my California Identification Card in my wallet.  I don’t know what else to do since I don’t have enough money to pay off the child support and get my license reinstated.  I’m not employed and its pretty rare that I get enough money together to make a sizable dent in any of the various past due balances that haunt my life.  At this point any money I get is never enough so I find myself trying to parlay hundreds into thousands, often by gambling at the local casinos except for Pechanga and Harrahs, and everybody knows that the end result of that is usually daily bankruptcy.

I’m not trying to make excuses for the crappy facts that define my existence presently, I’m just giving you some background information so you can get a better understanding of what is going on in this little tale.

Getting back to the events of December 11th now okay.  And we are stipulating that Anthony doesn’t have a current valid driver’s license with the caveat that before January 1st, the situation will be rectified.  It is now priority number one.  Also with the understanding that I don’t feel particularly bad about having driven with the suspended license since it is not due to any action taken behind the wheel, no moving violation or reckless driving but simply an inability to stay current on child support payments four years ago for my daughter who is now 18 years old.

Let’s pick up the story with Anthony and Christina about 2:00 p.m. on Friday the 11th of December, 2015.  We left Pala Casino and headed north on Pala-Temecula Road, a route I had driven literally hundreds of times from Temecula.  It is the only way to get to a slew of casinos located deep in the  wilderness to the south of Temecula and to the east of the 15 freeway including Pala, Valley View, Harrahs, and Pauma unless you want to drive a bunch of extra miles on the freeway and then you still have to drive east for miles.  Taking the Pala-Temecula Road is like driving as the crow flies and for most in the know, its the only way to get there.

Well apparently it is the route chosen by drug dealers as well as casino rats like me.  That’s what the Federal Border Patrol Agent who put me in handcuffs while a K-9 police dog sniffed inside and outside of my car for drugs told me anyway.

Stay tuned for Part II


Cathy Tretola: Shame Shame Shame! (Women who CRy Wolf but Look LIke DoGS)

Have you guys seen the video starring Cathy Tretola yet?  In it she stars as some pathetic, older hag who just got done watching the Clint Eastwood movie Thunderbolt and Lightfoot and wants to copy that chick Clint boned in the movie but didn’t want to give a ride home to.  That chick just exited the room in her bra and panties and yelled “Rape” at the top of her lungs until Clint Eastwood opened the door, pulled her back in the motel room, slipped her a wad of cash and told her she could get a taxi home.

In this version the girl is not even close to as hot as the chick in Clint Eastwood’s movie and not nearly as young.  This version’s girl is an ugly older lady with saggy tits who runs some kind of a boarding house place called Brookside Manor, in Quincy Massachusetts.  Apparently, the old wolf cryer, Cathy Tretola went into one of her tenants rooms uninvited with two male companions and started berating the guy for allegedly pissing out the window.  She started punching him and beating on him and telling him to hit her and all sorts of other shit until he finally started videotaping.

Just watch it here and you will see what the hell I’m talking about.  What a dumb bitch.  Here is the link:

Its scary to think just how many million times shit like this has happened.  Girls really shouldn’t use this tactic because pretty soon nobody is going to believe anything and someone is going to get killed.  Just saying…..


if you smell the sirens of her

if you smell the sirens of her

the rain thunder clouds in the sky are like moon drops on a pistol

pistol can turn brown

just turn green

budweiser sexy

you’re never be mean