Scratching of the Balls

The first time I heard this phraise was from a long time friend.

“What are you doing?”

“Scratchin’ balls.” It was his way of saying, I ain’t doing shit.

Well, with this fractured rib, I’ve been scratching balls a lot lately. If I was still a smoker, I’d probably have lung cancer already, because I know I would be chain smoking like a fool.

I started reading Stephen King’s It, and I’m toying around with a plot for my second short story. But when I’m sitting in a chair, reading, writing, and even watching TV–it gets old (I hate TV, but I find myself watching it more these days). Video games only go so far, as I’m not into them as much as I used to be–I must be growing up.

But then you remember the title of this post and realize that I haven’t.

This is my fourth blog to date, and while this is still a fairly new blog, I have already surpassed the others in content and satisfaction (minus the anxiety of sharing one’s work). Plus, I have been able to explore the craft of writing with this adventure much more. You only get good at something by doing it–and this keeps me doing it.

I look forward to getting Ubed up again, the money isn’t always great, but as an aspiring writer, it gives me a chance to learn how real people speak at each other, when they’re not shitting in my car.

Lunch Break Report vol. 2

This volume of the Lunch Break Report is coming to you from my recliner, where I have been stuck for sometime now with a broken rib. As I sit here wishing I could be out getting my Uber on, or puffing on this bomb Strawberry Kush and wax cumble I have (can’t risk the cough), I recalled a lame little unimportant story to share with y’all. I give you…

The Three O’clock Free Crack Give Away


img_4318 A late night round trip to the gas station booked by a young new couple all touchy and feely in the back seat. We traveled from gas station to gas station, but they were all closed at three in the morning. The girl, a self proclaimed Youtube personality (she was reluctant to talk about), asked me to shoot up to 7/11.

Ms. Youtube wanted to take a trip into the hood–well, from one hood to another. I was actually on my way home from late night bar runs when she ordered the ride. I figured why not squeeze in one more. Melven (another Uber driver), as she named him, cancelled her ride before I snagged it up, she wasn’t too happy about it. Ms. Youtube kept the early morning lively with her unique sense of humor.

As I pulled into the parking-lot, the three of us observed a congregation gathered just outside the front doors huddled next to a trash can a boom box with speakers that lit up sat on top of. There had to be five, six people in this group and another small group inside. The look on the guy’s face behind the counter said it all.

I felt bad for the guy.

The fare got out from the back seat manuevering throught the circus, and the dude ghosted her the entire time. It was kind of sickening, like high school kids on their first date with hormones ready to explode–been there, done did that. They disappeared into the Kwik-E-Mart while a fine upstanding citizen stopped right in front of my car and put on quite the demonstration on how to smoke crack.

It was absolutely–well, I’m not sure exactly what word to use to describe that experience, but it definitely was an experience. The bulgy wide-eyed junkie smacked his beak lubing up his snake skinned lips with his Jabba the Hutt tongue.

All the crack must’ve been gone, because in a matter of minutes the crowd soon dispersed, and it was almost quiet again, as it should be at three a.m.

I was soon greeted by some number in a tight white dress showing off each roll she was stacked up upon. This hotty noticed the Uber sticker in my windshield.

“Oh, you looking for someone to give a ride?” She said as she shuffled over in some clunky high heels.

Oh hells nah, I thought to myself, “No, my passengers are inside, I’m just waiting.” I smiled.

“Oh ok.”

She crouched down to get a better look at me, “Didn’t you give me a ride earlier?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t you drive for Lyft?” She looked back at the decal stuck to my windshield, eyes bugged out on the verge of falling out of her fucked up face and onto the hood of my car. She was gross–and probably could’ve supplied me with a years worth of stories from one single ride.

The lovely couple exited the Crackheads-R-Us, with the dude still getting his ghost on behind his girl. I’m not sure how they acomplished any shopping in that position, but I guess they had experience, because she had a bag of merch.

They piled into the backseat 0nce again. Ms. Youtube was a fast talker, funny, witty and I’m betting a superb shit talker and as entertaining as the trip was, and as funny as Ms. Getting Felt Up was, I would have rathered Melvin took that one.

Club crackhead was an event I could have done without.

Sake Bomb dot com


“It’s not like I don’t have a 357 magnum at home,” some fifty year old dumpy woman blurted out from the passenger seat.

Behind her sat her sister, and behind me her twenty something daughter. All three were drunk, particularly the gun toting blob next to me. They were very friendly and very talkative, but homegirl was tore up.

She told me about how her ex husband had left her–several times, and about her two ungrateful children (two other children) getting iPhones for Christmas or something. She told me that story a few times too, so you’d think I’d remember it.

I hate to sound cynical, because I know divorce sucks for all the parties involved, but this bitty was a bit irritating. It can be hard to maintain a conversation with a drunk when you’re not sauced up yourself.

“We had too many sashi bombs,” Ms. Magnum informed me before she launched into an hysterical roar of laughter about her misspoken words.

As we closed in on their destination, the intoxicated woman to my right pointed out which house was hers, “But don’t try and come back here later tonight, I have a 357 magnum, remember.”

I don’t know why this woman was worried that I was coming back later in the night. Maybe she was trying to throw some reverse psychology my way, to lurer me up into her room to have her way with me.

But it didn’t work. That costs extra.

I stopped in front of the “home of the magnum” and her sister hooked me up with a five spot. The trio wobbled up the driveway to try and sleep off the rice wine and hopefully the cougar left the biscuit alone.

Strip Club Blues


On my way back from Oceanside, half past three a.m., I managed to snag another ride on my way home. I recognized the address on my phone, because I had been there a few times before–⏤but for Uber needs only.

I was booked to pick up a customer from one of the local strip joints.

Once in the parking-lot, some big guy opened my passenger door and flung his fat ass inside.

I know that sounds mean of me to say it like that, sorry dude if you stumble upon this, but this is for entertainment purposes, and that’s how this muhfucka entertains yo.

The big belly next to me smelled of booze, but as I already knew and he made a point to inform me, they don’t serve alcohol up in there–⏤just O’Doul’s–⏤and who the hell wants to drink that shit?

“Man, I think I got drunk on O’Doul’s,” Captain Placebo said.

Dude must’ve smuggled in some booze or something, because he sure talked like he was drunk, repeating his story how he moved up here because of a stripper ex girlfriend.

Captain Placebo didn’t have anything good to say about the club, which made me wonder why the hell he went in the first place, but he kept circling back to some fifty year old titty hanging bitty that was trying to hustle him.

“The whole time I was there, I forgot to look at a vagina. It was right there in my face, and I didn’t look at it.”

What the fuck was that guy looking at then? Old, ugly or not, if there was a vagina in my face, I’d be looking yo. Maybe not necessarily enjoying it, but I’d sure as hell would notice beef curtains draped in my field of vision.

“There were vaginas all over the place, and I didn’t look at any of them!” Mr. Placebo said sounding genuinely disappointed in himself. “I want to go back.”

It must have been awhile since dude got laid–⏤I kind of felt sorry for him. Aside from his O’Doul breath and his drunken loudness, he was a pretty cool guy, a good passenger, and he was a tipper too. Tippers are always awesome in my book.

I hope he remembers to look at the meat wallets next time–⏤maybe if he lays off the O’Doul’s.

Fecal Matters

It was Friday. TGIF, right?

Fuck no.

It was a quarter to 2 am, and I sat in the small parking lot of a ginormous house, with a huge water fountain, and a big ass garage on the large lot of land.

Sitting there looking at the beautiful home with my headlights blaring into the property, I hoped for an interesting story, but I got much more than I wanted.

I sat there for five minutes or so and wondered if I was at the right location. Uber said this was the spot, but Uber has been wrong before. Finally a young man came out and told me he had to go back and get his friend.

Great, I thought.

I sat there for awhile and I knew what was up. I regretted accepting the ride. He eventually came back out with another guy, who was helping him drag an unconscious friend out of the mansion.

I was tempted to cancel right then and there, and bounce up out that bitch–⏤but I didn’t. It took them forever to get Dickhead, as the young man called him, in the backseat.

“He said he wanted to go beer for beer with me and you can see how that turned out.

“What’s the fee for someone puking in your car?”

I closed my eyes and breathed. Dickhead started gurgling and dry heaving. His friend reached over and popped the door open with a quickness pushing the drunk’s head out. I didn’t even bother looking back and told him about the barf bag in the door.

The young man was nice and apologized a bazillion times, but each apology went unanswered, because we had’t even left yet. The clock was running, but we weren’t moving, and that fifteen cents a minute wasn’t worth this bullshit.

We had been sitting there for fifteen or twenty minutes at this point and I was fucking annoyed. I wanted to kick those two out so bad–⏤but I didn’t.

Eventually he shoved his unconscious friend back inside before plopping in himself, and finally we were off.

“He’s not going to puke in your car bro.”

Yeah, keep telling yourself thatbro“, I thought to myself.

His parents were out of town and they decided to have a small kickback with some friends. The young man’s destination wasn’t far at all, but I took it slow, in fear of a bump causing Dickhead to chew backwards all over my seats.

When we got there, it took him two and a half months the get Dickhead out of my car and into his house. I couldn’t leave just yet, because he left some stuff in my car he said he was coming back for.

The seconds ticked away like hours. I don’t get paid jack when I’m not moving and I was tempted to leave his shit on the curb and jam–⏤but I didn’t.

I noticed something on the seat where Dickhead was sitting. I didn’t smell anything from the driver seat and it appeared to be dirt or sand, so I wasn’t too concerned.

Total time on the ride was almost forty-five minutes before he ran back out apologizing again and again. He handed me an eight dollar tip thanking me and once again apologizing for the inconvenience before yanking his belongings out of my car. I was off to see what was left of the bar scene.

I pulled over down the street to inspect the backseat before picking up the next ride. I was ready to free the small car vacuum in the trunk when I noticed a wet spot⏤

The dirt or sand wasn’t dirt or sand.img_4302 Captain dumb-fuck done shat his pants and done dookied on my seat.

I was livid.

Then, I could smell it, and home was a twenty minute ride away.

I had made a little over three bucks from the ride (+ $8 tip) for a fucked up forty-five minutes of my life, and I missed out on the rest of the shift (I’m usually out till 4-430am on weekends).

That’s that Uber life. It can’t always be hot chicks and fat tips.

*My seat is dookie free and I’m one hundred and fifty dollars closer to becoming a thousandaire.

Just the FAQs


As an Uber driver, I encounter many different people each month, and for the most part, each person asks some sort of variation of the following questions.

1) How long have you been driving for Uber?

Since right now, you’re my first ride.

2) Do you like driving for Uber?

It’s okay, I  really don’t mind it. Besides its the only job I could get after they released me from the institution.

3) Do you do have another job besides driving for Uber?

Everyone wants to know the answer to this question. Yes, I pee on people for money.

4) Do you make good money?

Nope. I just like secretly recording passengers with hidden cameras, but not for YouTube.

5) Where are you from?

It was a place in a time before the great catastrophe that occurred on this planet and the other seventy-five planets which formed the Galactic Confederacy seventy-five million years ago. It has since that time been a desert, and there has been a handful who have tried to push it’s technology up to a level where someone might adventure forward, penetrate the catastrophe, and undo it. 

6) Have you ever been in a dangerous situation?

There was this one time I picked up a one armed little person in high heels and panties only—but I’d rather not talk about it.

7) Are these snacks for free?

Only if you follow my blog, my Twitter, and like my Facebook page, otherwise them bitches is five bones a pop son.

8) What’s the farthest you’ve ever gone?

I once dropped off at passenger at the Lone Pine Mall in Hill Valley.

9) Can I smoke in your car?

Only if it is crack or meth.

10) Does anyone ever tip you?

Sometimes, usually by passengers who work in the service industry. One guy even promised to give me the tip, but he bailed before making good on his offer.

This isn’t too frequent of a question, but I find it funny that the ones that ask, never tip.