Saturday, December 29, 2012

BREAKING NEWS: Ugandan Rebels Liberated!

Psych! There may very well be Ugandan rebels awaiting liberation at this very moment, but I'll be goddamned if I know anything about them. We've got far more important business at hand anyway. This is really about the first letters of the title, those being U, R & L. Because What Sucks Now has its very own URL: . Yeah, maybe we couldn't afford the "k" and the "s" in sucks, so we shortened it to sux. And maybe its a touch rough around the edges. And it isn't a stretch to say I know fuck all about how to use my own website. But who cares? What matters is that cyberspace just got 100x awesomer. Rejoice in the fact that you no longer have to type blogspot, what a pain in the ass.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Chivalry is Not Dead

I was off to work this morning, awaiting the bus at Sedgwick and Scott per usual. CTA is still a twat if ever there was one, but how else am I going to get to work, bike? Fuck that. As much as I'd love to start each day of my rewarding, soul-enriching job with an ass crack full of sweat, I can't bring myself to do it. Besides, you're playing with your life if you ride your bike to work in Chicago. Between the cabbies who collectively think that Khartoum rules apply and bus drivers who are too busy sexting their baby daddy to check their mirrors, it is not a matter of if but rather when you are being scraped off LaSalle Street. My neighbor does it most every day sans helmet, but he is tall, dark and handsome, so I think people give him a wide berth because of that. And come to think of it, why the fuck am I going to work anyway? Total coward move showing up there everyday, ON TIME no less. Pussy if ever there was one. A real man would have told them he was resting his balls on their chin long ago. But long ago is also the same era when I was actually a real man.

Moving on. While I awaited my chariot for the poor a man teetered by slowly on a bike, a well-known crackhead chasing him on foot. He finally stopped the bike and in very modern business-like fashion asked of her, "Bitch, what the fuck you on my dick fo?" The negotiations finally under way, she replies "Man, you know the fuck I need!" Shrewd as an Arab trader, was she. "Show me that paper first." The buyer in the transaction pulled out what appeared to be some local currency that had been wadded up and stored inside of a cat's asshole for a week while the apartment was being swept by looters. "What dis look like mutherfucker?" The proprietor of the bicycle pharmacy inspected the balls of negotiable bills with the care of a diamond dealer. You simply cannot teach this shit at Wharton. And here is what I would refer to as a teachable moment: The dealer pulls out his hand brandishing numerous pills and says, "Alright bitch, which one you want?" Chivalry is NOT dead! He was well within his rights to swat the unsightly bills from her hand and tell her to come back with her shit together. He could have very easily sold her the fucked up looking pill that his pit bull tried to eat until he kicked him in the balls causing a saliva-soaked pill to ricochet off his baby's face. But no, as a sign of good faith for producing actual paper money and not a handful of urine-soaked pocket coins or some menthol cigarettes and some Jujubes, our salesman allowed this misshapen maiden to choose the pill she wanted and not the one he most wanted to rid himself of. Remember this the next time you are trying to decide whether or not to hold the door for a woman. The manners must have been contagious as the woman bade him "Thank you" before nearly crawling back to her abode to--we assume--swallow that pill along with a 22oz pounder of Steel Reserve and all her childhood dreams.

I'm unsure of what exactly he sold her. From a short distance and in broad daylight--as these co-conspirators could have given a flying fuck where they were or who was watching--it appeared to be pills of some sort. I assume oxycontin but really the sky's the limit. It could have been crack I guess. However, what I know of crack production it seemed the items in his hand were of too clean a line to be rocks cut from home-cooked cake with a Stanley knife. So I'm going with oxycontin. But I'm sure it could have been something else, something really cool that I don't even know about. That is what a sack of shit I've allowed myself to become. I don't even know what drugs the kids are doing these days. Sure, I know about those really fun-sounding bath salts that make you shit your pants and suck blood from the neck of HIV-Positive vagrants, I'm not that out-of-touch. Marijuana is still there and never going away. Kids are probably still doing coke and I think I've read where heroin is so hot right now that even kids in boring fucking places like Naperville are overdosing on it. But maybe there is some new shit where if your girlfriend huffs it from a burning pan and blows it into your eyes your dick will glow and you can screw for hours without joy or any hope of climax? And how sad that I don't know shit about it. Cycle of life I guess. Pretty fucking depressing when pondered. Although offered a couple of times I've never tried oxycontin. It seems like a pretty kick-ass time. Everyone I've ever seen on it is having a blast laying half-off a sofa in a puddle of their own drool with their eyes rolled back in their heads as an overly loud infomercial blares away in the background. But as awesome as that obviously is, I was too scared I would have such a great time that I wouldn't wake up....ever. Yeah I know, but to be honest I'm just not a carpe diem kinda guy. Oh well, world needs straight alcoholics too.

Saturday, July 28, 2012

I'm a PIG.

Oink Oink my good man.  It took awhile, but I've come to terms with it--I'm a common fat person.  Just your average, run-of-the-mill, garden variety fat fucking American pig with no will power or understanding of the word "No".  No big deal, just packin' em on USmutherfuckingA style y'all.  Sure, I could blame the baby that doesn't sleep ruining my body's ability to regulate cortisol, blah oink blah.  That is fatty talk.  But fatty I've become, and you know what?  I'm cool with it.  I'll just buy bigger pants and shit.  The pic to the left isn't actually me--I could only dream of melting panties with a big swingin' dick mustache like this.  But it was the closest body double picture I could find on the Internet which truly captured the essence of what a slack-assed bottom-feeding swine I've become.  I didn't plan this.  It happened organically and over time.  A few months go by and one row of abs disappears.  You wake up one morning and walk by a mirror and your arm is one solid, shadow-free, uninterrupted mass of pork flesh.  No more visible veins and certainly no horseshoe on the tris.  Now my gut is the first person through the door and the tops of my khakis (way too fucking hot for jeans this summer) curve ever so lovely outward like a tulip in bloom from supporting my ample girth.  I've arrived at the moment where I must accept reality, retreat to the mall and buy all new clothes sized up for today's modern, husky man.  I wanted to set a positive example for my daughter.  Truly this was my intention.  I was to be the dad IN the backyard soccer games and body surfing along side her at the ocean.  Now I'll just be the dad shouting encouragement from the lawn chair in between bites of potato salad and swills of Budweiser.  That's okay, she'll know that under all those chins, obesity sweat and XL sweatshirt, there slowly and laboringly beats an organ fat sheathed heart that loves her all the same.  The previous 5 years when I was lean and sleek like an alert Jaguar, ready to tear off running at a moments notice and perpetually on edge with sharp hunger, deep inside there slept a pig whose oink would not be silenced evermore.  And now his oink roars like the king of the barnyard.  It is 2:00 p.m. on a sun-drenched, humidity-free Saturday.  The type of summer day that bends over, hikes up its skirt and DEMANDS to be taken advantage of with a savage pounding of exercise.  And I sit indoors, air-conditioning blasting, drinking a fucking beer.  Yes, a goddamn beer (and not to throw anyone under the bus, but fuck you Gerald for texting me how awesome your 24oz Dead Guy movie theater pounder was).  I'm already planning hors de vours and dinner.  My wife and I are debating the merits of Jillian Michaels's "7 Day Weight Loss" plan that we came across during an Olympics commercial break, where we were watching the accomplishments of the young and in shape.  I feel like Jared Leto at the end of Requiem For A Dream when he awakes in a hospital room with his festering, needle-tracked arm having been amputated.  Maybe I can recover, maybe I can't.  But do I still possess even the will to care?  Or do I accept that Pfizer makes cholesterol pills for a reason (not to make money but to save lives goddamnit!!!) and march to that kitchen and go balls deep in a block of Italian cheese that lurks in the lunch meat drawer of the refrigerator?  The devil pig screams "YES!" from my right shoulder while glancing to my left I see that angel pig is still on sabbatical somewheres unknown.  I quit.  It is too late for me.  Next time you see me I'll be gut-bumping another of my fat American brethren in the aftermath of our team's touchdown, beer and bratwurst condiments spewing into the crisp autumn air.  

UPDATE: Gerald texts that he is on to 24oz Dead Guy #2.  Is this the impetus to continue my own downward spiral into diabetes?

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Aggressive Morning

Just a tip-off: Anyone who is not a fan of Conan the Barbarian (yes the original, quit fucking asking) might want to spend their 5 minutes on higher pursuits, like picking their nose or huffing VCR head cleaner.  And while you're at, kill yourself.  If you haven't seen this movie, then clearly you've done nothing with your life and never will. 

I like to listen to classical music in the morning.  It is a soothing way to ease into a new day.  98.7 in Chicago is an exceptional radio station, and my man Carl Grapentine has the voice of an angel.  A goddamned siren song.  This morning I was driving to the gym prior to Carl's morning start time of 06:00, so I was grooving along with Peter Van De Graaf.  Peter is no Carl, and I'll fight any man, woman or child who says differently.  But Peter is cool.  I was greeted today with a most fucking awesome tune, that being a little Conan the Barbarian montage.  There are few better ways to get pumped for anything than CtheB music.  I mean, obviously smoking some crack and slamming your shoulder into a wall until the pain necessitates you go do something really sweet is probably a slightly more effective way--but we're splitting hairs at that point.  I sat in the car and let the entire score play out before I made my move:

I went into 7-11 and bought some shoe polish.  Why shoe polish still exists at the consumer level, and why they always sell it at convenience stores and gas stations--neither of which sells shoes--is beyond me. But you know it will be right there below the duct tape and the cloth work gloves.  I take the shoe polish back to my car, where I proceed to lose the shirt and cover my face, neck and torso in black camouflage striping.  I was fresh out of rope for scaling the wall of East Bank Club, so I went through the front per usual.  I was greeted with curious stares from the front desk staff charged with checking in my member card.  Unlike every other morning when I present my card for swiping, today I round-house kicked the first guy in the head, knocking him unconscious.  I immediately grabbed the woman, managing to stifle her scream before she could complete it.  I slowly put her down with a sleeper hold.  With both sleeping off the assault, I proceeded straight to the main workout room.  Unfortunately I had no sword so I improvised as best I could.  As I entered I grabbed a narrow barbell, those for the aerobics classes that are super light for women.  From my gym bag I pulled out the jump rope.  I immediately ducked from view and took the stairwell to the upper balcony.  I slid down the heating duct with a primal scream.  The element of surprise was with me, as no one in the workout room at 5:45 a.m. was expecting a short, shirtless dude with cammo to be sliding down the heating duct.  I proceeded immediately upon hitting the floor to whipping every person near me with my jump rope followed by smashing or slashing them with the barbell.  It was complete and utter pandemonium.  I knew at this point time was not on my side.  Before the authorities could arrive, presumably armed with guns and not jump ropes and barbells, I dashed outside.  The East Bank Club, as the name would indicate, sits directly on the east bank of the river.  I dashed up and down the river walk until I found a snake.  Granted it was not a 100ft long boa constrictor who eats sacrificed virgins once a week, but it would do.  I went back inside to the main workout room.  I was able to use the weight stack on a quad machine to sever the snake's head.  I threw the carcass into the middle of the room, then held the barbell upright very menacingly, daring anyone to challenge me.  No one moved an inch.  I left the way I came.

This is what happens when Peter Van De Graaf plays the Conan montage to start the morning.  A bit irresponsible on Peter's part.  Regrettably I used my member card to swipe at the parking gate upon exiting, so I fear it may not take Sherlock Holmes to locate me.  But with the Riddle of Steel now solved, I can relax and enjoy my weekend.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Hey Hitler, How Does Ohio's Ass Taste?

After reading the title I'm sure you are wondering how the great Buckeye State of Ohio managed to bend Hitler over and cram it into his maniacal, genocidal ass?  The 1936 Berlin Olympics is your answer.  Fantastic "American Experience" episode on WTTW last night featuring Jesse Owens.  I recommend downloading and watching it when you have the time (57 minutes long).  Long story short, Jesse Owens is from a family of 10 kids growing up in Cleveland.  He is also faster than a 16 year old boy losing his virginity.  Jesse ends up at Ohio State where he eventually obliterates the field and the national record book during the 1935 Big Ten Championship in Ann Arbor(is a WHORE), Michigan.  4 records taken down in under one hour.  "Could you please use 'Dictate' in a sentence?"  "Sure.  Big Ten, how Jesse Owens's dictate?"  Now here comes the awesomer part....Adolf Hitler and his merry band of repressed homosexual psychotic asshole Nazi buddies are propaganda'ing all over town about how Jews suck, black people aren't human, blah blahfuckingblah.  Hitler doesn't even want the Olympics because he thinks it is some sort of "Jewish Nigger Party" (his words), whatever in the hell that means.  However, Minister of Bullshit Joseph Goebbels convinces boy-toucher Hitler that this would be the greatest of all opportunities to show the world just how superior the Aryan race really is by destroying all the other ethnic rabble in feats of strength and spreed.  Great idea shithead, worked out really well in the end.  In steps Jesse Owens with his gigantic fucking Buckeye balls.  Apparently the scene was pretty creepy with Hitler entering to the wild adulation of the German people in attendance (probably all planted party hacks, but whatever).  First off, nice fucking mustache Hitler.  You are a goddamn pedophile if ever I've seen one.  No way you didn't have a white van with blacked-out windows parked behind the Reichstag.  The main event 100 meters is the first order of business.  Owens fucking smokes every honky in the race, with the other black guy finishing second.  Oh, and he tied the world record.  Then he runs into the crowd, up to the Dictator's box, and takes out his meat sword and dick-slaps Hitler in the face before pissing all over his head.  Actually that did not happen but it would have been utter tits if it had.  He goes to the medal stand where it is customary at the time for the leader of the host country to shake the hand of the 100M gold winner.  Of course Herr Handjob balks and says something to the effect of "How could I shake the hand of a negro?"  Owens goes on to win the broad jump, where the white German dude he bested takes him on a veryVERY homoerotic waltz around the Berlin Olympic stadium arm-in-arm just to rub a turd in Hitler's face.  He wins some other event I cannot remember and in the process takes a giant burrito and tequila shit on the entire Nazi party.  The final insult comes when they replace two Jewish dudes on the 4x100 relay team with Jesse and some other black guy.  Of course they annihilate the field in that event as well.  This provided the funniest moment of the documentary, as they showed a picture of two skinny ass white Jewish guys, then show a picture of who was replacing them....Jesse Owens and a dude who looked like he could step in and play free safety for the Pittsburgh Steelers tomorrow.  It was like going into Budget to rent a Ford Fiesta and walking out with a Ferrari.

And like every feel good story involving a black person in America prior to the Civil Rights Act (and sometimes after it), this one ends in stupidity, heartbreak and depression.  When Jesse came back to the U.S., all the great high-paying offers he got from American entities while in Berlin apparently didn't actually exist, those people just wanted some feel-good PR on the backs of his dominance in the Olympics.  Jesse couldn't even get a fuckin' hotel room in New York City shortly after returning.  Someone finally let him stay, provided he and his wife entered and exited exclusively through the servants door.  What kind of shit is that?  At one point he ran a goddamned dry cleaning business.  Get the fuck out of my face!  Jesse Owens steam cleaning someone's dirty trousers.  I always assumed he came home and spent the rest of his life being fanned with palm leaves and fed grapes by half-naked women.  He deserved to be.  But instead he was so hard up for cash that he eventually started racing against horses.  Yes equines.  For shame.  "...with Liberty and Justice for All" my white ass.  You are good enough to represent your country on a world stage.  We'll get in everyone's face when you beat the shit out of them on the field of competition.  But don't even think of getting a hotel room in this country, or a lucrative job.  And since you won't just go off and die somewhere, you wanna race some fuckin' horses? 

I always love when a racist trying to pretend not to be a racist says, "What are they complaining about, they've had their freedom for nearly 150 years".  Well, yes, "they" have.  But it took another 100 years until they got any RIGHTS.  Poor Jesse Fuckin' Owens makes everyone proud to be an American, skull-fucks Hitler for the enjoyment of the entire world, and can't even get a hotel room in 1936, which is 71 years after the Civil War.  Fuckin' guy did more to fight Hitler than France and Denmark combined.

So here's to Jesse Owens.  If I were in charge, you'd have gotten the Jack Nicklaus treatment until the day you died. 

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Thanks for the New Corner, Assholes

The City of Chicago, in its infinite wisdom and with its plenitude of excess funds, has decided to install a new sidewalk corner at the southeast intersection of West Division and North Orleans streets.  This is otherwise known as across the street from my bedroom window.  It appears they have ripped up the one that was there and are in the process of laying down a new one.  I cannot figure out why we have such a gaping budget shortfall with invaluable projects like these.  The best part of this project to modernize the previously modern corner of W Division and N Orleans, is that it is being done entirely overnight.  From approximately 11 p.m. until 5 a.m., for the past two weeks, these dickholes have been working on tearing up concrete, hauling it away, and otherwise making our lives a living fucking hell.  This is great news for all involved, except of course the residents of this neighborhood who have had to collectively go in on a 5 gallon bucket of cocaine in an attempt to stay awake for our jobs.  We are, however, very happy that the single-wide lane of traffic has not had to be slightly narrowed during the day to accommodate the workers.  I wonder if the decision to work overnight has anything to do with the fact that our neighborhood is still considered, by many, to be "the hood", given that it was formerly the Cabrini Green projects?  I know many of the former Cabrini residents are still drifting around the neighborhood, but I feel very strongly that they deserve to drink 22 ounce cans of Steel Reserve in relative peace and quiet, just like the rest of us.  Would this project be occurring during the graveyard shift if the address were Mohawk and Dickens, or somewhere on Astor Court?  Me thinks not.  So keep on rockin' all night dudes--I hope this is the shiniest fucking corner in all of Chicago when you are through. 

As you can imagine, this has also done wonders for the previously shitty sleeping habits of my 13 month old daughter.  She already sleeps like a spooked cat hooked on crystal meth, and this really added a sharpness to her nightly wake ups.  Much like wind in the willows or the crash of distant waves upon the shore, the pounding of jackhammer on concrete at 2:30 a.m. a mere 50 feet from your bedroom is a powerful sedative for a baby.  I awoke several times with burning hatred in my heart for both the City, and the workers (like they have some sort of say in the matter).  I've threatened, to no one in particular, to call and complain.  But in rational moments I've realized the futility in speaking to whoever functions as "Customer Service" for the City of Chicago.  I can't imagine how that would be received by the fat woman who answers that phone in between swallows of Diet Coke and bites of 7-11 bought snack cakes.  So I stew in quiet.  Thus far my only act of defiance has been to violently flip a middle finger out the window of my car, aimed in the direction of the workers, as I drive to the gym at 5:10 a.m. each day.  I've no reason at all to believe that anyone has ever seen it.  FML indeed. 

Monday, April 30, 2012

The Secret Service Sex Scandal has Me Puzzled

If what I am understanding is correct...If you are in the U.S. Secret Service, while on assignment you canNOT have sex with Colombian prostitutes.  So what is the fucking point of being one?  What the hell am I missing here?  Am I dense or something?  I could have sworn that nailing Colombian pros was part of the basic job description.  If this is somehow frowned upon-no wait-prohibited, then I'm crossing "Secret Service" off my second career list.  BORING.  May as well join the fuckin' Peace Corps.  I'm so goddamn sick of this hypocritical, Puritan fucking bullshit that I want to puke.  This is beyond ludicrous:

1.  You can bomb, shoot, occupy, pillage and rape any country you want, so long as it is in the name of "defeating terrorism" or "fighting oppression" or any other bullshit vague and ambiguous line of reasoning.  We'll sign off on that shit. 

2. If you travel to another country, with your free time you cannot bang whores.  We'll force your shit into retirement or outright fire your ass so fast it will make your head spin. 

The moral police flat out suck.  Hypocritical shitheels all the way.  Murder lots of people in the name of "Freedom" = GOOD; Nail chicks in the name of being a drunk dude with a cool job = EVIL.  If anything the lack of sexual tension would result in all these guys having a clear head to protect the POTUS with the following day.  If you can't have sex with prostitutes anymore, then what type of people are you going to attract to the Secret Service?  NERDS, that's who.  And if I'm the POTUS, I don't want to trust my life to a bunch of NERDS. 

By the way, I know that somewhere in this story, the real story, Slick Willie had to have made an appearance.  No one is banging whores in the name of the executive branch of the United States on Slick's watch, without him being in the game.