Truth lives at That LARRY SHOW, a weekly sojourn at the crossroads of madness and enlightenment. With LARRY in your life, you'll Take No Sh*t, and laugh your way to victory.
Mental health tips from Charles Manson ■ Elon Musk’s success secret, revealed ■ How to navigate the family Thanksgiving minefield ■ Reality is a demon, and he’s out to screw up your holidays ■ Why car and wine companies are to blame for all holiday misery ■ The Commie punks trying to destroy Thanksgiving ■ Bring your appetite to this feast of an episode!
From Lust to Gluttony, how far can you go? ♦ What is moral relativism and why is it crap? ♦ How can pride be a sin? ♦ What’s the difference between wrath and anger? Which one is good for you? ♦ Which is the groupsin – and the deadliest? (It’s not the one you guessed!) ♦ This episode will help you look better, have more fun and avoid eternal damnation!
Bullshitters I have known ■ Why do people bullshit? ■ Good responses for bullshit ■ Where do most bullshitters live? ■ What do bullshitters drive? ■ The fake it ‘til you make it mentality ■ What is the salvage economy and why does Larry love it? ■ Which has the highest concentration of bullshitters, politics, academia or corporations? ■ Put on your hazmat suit and prepare for a deep dive into the world of bullshit!
Bullshit and bullshitters are everywhere, but the highest concentration is in The City Without a Soul, Los Angeles. When you think bullshit, you think agents and studio guys and entertainment attorneys in their I’m too cool offices spewing lies like a minigun spews 7.62 rounds. I’ve heard it myself from all of the aforementioned parties. But I really didn’t expect an avalanche of bullshit on the other side of the tracks, in the industrial bowels of the San Fernando valley, from a junkman who called himself an antique curator. He claimed to be worth many, many millions, but hung out in his dingy junk shop on a gorgeous Saturday morning because he “missed working.”
I encountered him while searching for coffee as my car was having an alignment at a shop in an alley.
Given a choice, I will always support the small business man, and avoid the corporate entities. Get an alignment at Pep Boys, and a chunk of the tab is buying club memberships for the corner-office jack-offs who’ve never scrubbed bearing grease off their hands with a bar of Lava. Fuck them. And their clubs.
I support the small business man, who feeds his family by his toil. And they invariably do a better job than some hourly-wage felon working at his third chain repair shop this month because he’s incompetent.
While my wheels were finding their proper camber and castor and toe-in and out, I took a little walk around the neighborhood. A neighborhood that soccer moms and senior partners would never venture into. Is it dangerous? Probably no more than the upscale malls and boulevards. But it doesn’t look so tidy and neat and sanitized and goddamn BORING!
I hate the phrase “photo essay.” The authors of most photo essays are guys with chin-strap sun hats and Birkenstocks and lifetime Sierra Club memberships. That ain’t me, folks.
So I’ll just post a few pics and comment as I go, and leave the photo essaying to… them.
First: sex. I should have stepped inside and asked if Dr. Love was seeing patients today. But whoever he (or she) is, I admire their blunt approach to marketing. In better neighborhoods, sex shops try to be subtle and tasteful. In the flats of the mid-San Fernando valley – the region that birthed the porno business, they gave subtlety a golden shower 50 years ago, and left it on the bathroom floor of the hot-sheet motel/studio.
Get to the doctor.
The mannequins are dressed and posed to engage and engorge. Wanton. Crass. Whorish. Craven. Every man’s dream woman in polyurethane and stretchy , washable Rayon.
May I have this lap dance?
The salvage economy is both diverse and highly specialized. Erring on the side of variety: the Moon Store, where you can buy shoes (3 pair $20! – imagine the quality…) and cell phone accessories, all while you have your pants altered.
God is everywhere, especially here, with the Camino de Santidad. Turns out this storefront church is a chain, so I won’t be attending. I guess Corporate God Providers have to start somewhere. For more about those, click on any Sinners’ Sunday link. .
The “Path of Holiness.”
In the salvage economy, used is not a dirty word, and they don’t spray paint it with bullshit by calling it “pre-owned.”
Here’s a store that sells used bikes and only used bikes. Some rust on the handlebars, but they’ll probably go for miles or decades more. In tonier neighborhoods, they call these things “beach cruisers.” In my childhood neighborhood, they called them truck bikes. They were ridden by delivery boys, who were often grown men, but that’s what they were called.
Odd that they are all girls’ bikes, sans the testes-crushing crossbar standard on boys’ bikes. Yeah, I know, some shit about no crossbar accommodating flowing skirts. Seen any females riding a bike while dressed in a flowing skirt? Neither have I. Get your shit together, Diamondback, Trek, Scott, et. al. You’re doing it WRONG.
Nobody in the salvage economy sweats the details or aesthetics. Made a mistake on your window sign? Fuck it – just redact it with a fat, chisel-point marker. It’s good enough for de-classified FBI shit, isn’t it?
People still play with slot-cars? Sounds as quaint as physical media.
Seems like every neighborhood (we don’t use the word community here – it’s too close to Commie) has a mystery door. This door would look right on a nice, Spanish or Mediterranean style home. Why is it plugged in here with the wrought iron security fencing? Inquiring minds want to know.
Maybe it is the door to a home – where the owner of PayDay loans resides. With 460% interest charges, he probably needs a lot of security.
460.16% APR. Are they fucking kidding? Gambino loan sharks were locked up for charging 10% vig.
L‘art pour l’art? Maybe in Paris, but in the deep Valley, there’s always a prick with a can of Krylon to fuck up your masterpiece. Looks like they want blood on Larry. And they like (sell?) LSD. You just can’t have nice things in the new America.
Lastly, this plumber’s truck. Vintage 1950’s? 60”s? Whenever, it pre-dated the need for a phone number or URL. Toilet’s plugged up in Canoga Park? Stick your head out the window and scream the crapper’s clogged!
Mr. Allen will hear you. It was a better world in his day, I suspect.
When you finally flip out, will it be like a champ or a chump? Here are the pro tips you need.
Snaps – they’ve become a part of life. Drudge seems to list at least one per week. But are those truly organic, authentic rage and fritz–out snaps or copycat snaps from attention–starved wannabes? Because a lot of them are looking very similar. Almost cookie cutter.
Be a loner, with creepy social media posts. Become either disgruntled employee or bullied student. Write a “manifesto” and/or suicide note. Commence “senseless killings.” Die by cop or suicide.
Same old, same old.
Once in a great while, some iconoclast snaps and re-defines the art of snapping.
One of the greatest of all time was Tony Kiritsis.
He elevated snapping to a higher art form. Maybe they should call it “Tony’s Safety Snapping.” Incredibly, nobody died during or after the 63 hours he spent with a shotgun wired to the head of his (former) mortgage broker. Tony became a folk hero of sorts. He made the entire City of Indianapolis kiss kiss ass for nearly three days while he heaped verbal abuse on them. Then, the hostage signed promissory note awarding Tony $5 million in damages. And the District Attorney gave written assurance Tony would not be prosecuted, either for his obstreperous behavior or for calling everybody motherfuckers and cocksuckers.
So Tony released the hostage and was promptly arrested, jailed and then locked in nuthouses for more than a decade. He was pretty damn smart until he trusted his government.
It took more than a quarter century for another snap maestro to emerge, one Marvin Heemeyer of Killdozer fame. The town of Granby Colorado was tormenting him, so over the course of 18 months, Marvin created this:
She’s a beauty, ain’t she? When he was finished, Marvin had demolished a substantial portion of Granby, including the police station and town hall. Why doesn’t Marvin get top honors over Tony? Because he put a bullet in his own head. That’s a forfeit. Sorry, Marv.
However, it was much more evident that Marvin’s actions were justified and his folk hero status is so secure, he’s even got his own flag.
That’s pretty cool.
So have a listen, and learn from the masters how to snap with style.
What Larry learned from the Middleweight champion of the world ♦ How a jelly-bean jar can help you select the right mate ♦ The secret strategy that wins most battles ♦ Can a name change change your life? ♦ How a pointy chick Larry never even met introduced him to a boxing legend ♦ Meet Larry’s Commie-hatin’ Cubano buddy, Francisco ♦ Relationship advice every man (and woman) can use! ♦ All this and more in this epic episode!
Larry, after training with boxing legend Roberto Duran
The sickest serial killers you never heard of ▲ What happens when a psycho calls his girlfriend “Ma”▲ Why sex in a van = death ▲ How Halloween went from Charlie Brown’s Great Pumpkin to gorn ▲ The 21st century calisthenics that cause obesity ▲ Why you should always heed a creepy feeling ▲ Do you know a serial killer? ▲ Are you a serial killer?
How did we go from Charlie Brown’s Great Pumpkin to the twisted gorn now emblematic of America’s 2nd biggest revenue producing “holiday?” And what the fuck ever happened to Thanksgiving?
You know any day now, the history revisionists will re-cut the Pilgrims as they did Columbus, rendering Thanksgiving a celebration of shame and savagery. But that’s for another show.
There’s no denying the savagery of two of L.A.’s weirdest serial killers, Douglas Clark and his girlfriend/roomie, Carol Bundy.
As you can see, Doug was mister average, though he does have the same psycho glint in his eye as most politicians. That expression that says “I’m a diseased and worthless pile of shit, but look how sincere I can appear when I want to.” I’m always leery of guys doing the no-pressure hand-to-chin pose. Seems like every phony CEO uses that pose.
Doug is doing life at San Quentin. You can write to him at inmate # C63000, San Quentin CA, 94964.
This is Dougie circa 2015. Don’t know if somebody got his eye. Maybe it was look like a pirate day at the big house. He still has the psycho look in his remaining eye.
Below is Carol Bundy, now deceased. In her day, she was quite a hot number. Not a hot looking number, but she did manage to bed quite a few guys. One, she gut-stabbed nine times, slashed his ass and then shot him in the head. Then she sawed off his head. She was a nurse. And a 2x mom. So maternal. A real nurturer.
This the Little Nashville – the bar where Doug and Carol met. It was in North Hollywood. Wonder who the biker was obstructing the view. Maybe he was there the night Carol shanked, shot and decapitated the guy she had just screwed outside that honkey tonk.
Below are two heads stuffed in a fridge. I couldn’t locate an image of the actual hooker head Doug Clark stuck in Carol’s Whirlpool Frost-Free, but this is a reasonable facsimile. Carol made the hooker head up real pretty for Doug – foundation, rouge, mascara, eye-liner, lip-gloss, and hair, so Doug could take it in the shower and have his way with it.
There now, is that enough Halloween sickness for you? Makes you almost pine for Charlie Brown’s boring, G-rated pumpkin.
HEAR a 35,000 year-old ghost declare you are GOD!▲Take the test and discover your spirit animal-guide-thingy▲What’s Larry’s spirit animal and why does he hate it?▲How Larry gave life to a reptile… twice!▲What’s the dumbest line in movie history?▲Why do people derive their identities from everything from sports teams to sneakers?▲Why crystals, fossils and Bonsai trees are necessary at L.A. beaches
People think they’re so damn smart, don’t they? Until somebody tells them they resemble a wolf or grizzly bear or an eagle. Or that they can “save the planet.” Then the stupid starts to ooze from every pore and orifice.
This episode was inspired by a recent drive to the beach – a beach where vendors sell crystals and fossils. At every other beach I’ve visited, vendors sell sunscreen or cold drinks or hot dogs or beach towels or straw mats – useful things. Things you might need at the beach. Not in L.A.
After my day at the beach, I saw a spirit animal sign in some new-agey store window.. I’d heard about those for years, but never looked further. So I took an online test to determine which beast is my spirit animal.
Here it is:
Oh the ignominy.
As I delved deeper into the metaphysical realm, I happened upon this woman.
That’s J.Z. Knight. It’s also the 35,000 year old spirit warrior she “channels,” Ramtha. (No one has ever seen Ramtha – only heard his voice, through J.Z.s mouth). For a price, you can attend her school in Yelm, Washington and meet her, and Ramtha, and learn how to “create you own reality.” When you do meet Ramtha, he will tell you that you, and everyone in the room, are a bunch of Christs.
