Friday, December 30, 2011

I'm In a FAST Market for New Years Resolutions in 2012

These are my many 2012 New Years Resolutions:

1. Keep being fucking awesome, day-in, day-out. 
2. I promise to not lose any weight or get in shape in 2012.  You know why?  Because I don't eat like a fucking sow with no pride in myself, and I work harder to warm up than you do in 60 minutes of reading "Us Weekly" on an elliptical machine.
3. I will continue to be an asshole.
4. I will look at the glass as half-empty.
5. I will drink more than the surgeon general recommends.
6. I will prepare my 9 month old child for the new reality of post-US dominated Earth by teaching her valuable life skills such as cheating, stealing, making other people look bad to get ahead, growing potatoes, ditching bread lines, running from irrational angry mobs, stabbing people with improvised knives, grifting, making stew from leather goods, fighting for her supper, and speaking Mandarin Chinese. 
7. I will give the dirtiest looks I can summon to all people at the gym who are there for 6 weeks as part of their resolutions.
8. I absolutely will continue to think about my goals yet do absolutely nothing towards achieving them.
9. I hope to start the process of thinking my kid is better looking, smarter, and more talented than her peers.
10. I won't help people unless there is something of equal or greater value in it for me.
11. Develop new conspiracy theories to explain how "I'm getting fucked over".
12. I might actually turn this into a web site, but probably not.
13. Continue to dominate in every way imaginable, up to and including increasing my running pace--without breathing hard--past people on the bike path who are struggling mightily and breathing hard.

These are my promises to you, the people.  Have a lovely fucking New Years.  Don't drink and drive.  When you are making the decision at 3am "I don't really want to sleep on Dave's sofa with the jizz stains and crotch whiff, I'm just gonna drive home", try to think of this: Is getting one night of miserable, hungover sleep in your own bed worth getting a giant dong stuffed up your ass against your will for 5 years in the joint because you crossed the center line and killed a family of 5 coming home from a nerd New Year playing Scrabble sober at their grandma's house?  Is it worth it?  Be safe and feel secure that I will be dominating in 2012.

Suck it 2011, I owned you. 

Thursday, December 29, 2011

It Was God's Plan for Me to get Fucked Up on Christmas Eve Eve

I bear absolutely no responsibility for my raging hangover on Christmas Eve.  If you were offended by it, then talk to the big guy upstairs.  "Why would you want to be hungover and borderline ill for your daughter's first Christmas Eve at Grandma's house?".  Because God wanted it that way is my answer.  If God didn't want me to be hungover all day Saturday, then why did he(she....but not he-she, though if that is what it is, then I guess that is cool) insist on me drinking heavy beer in the evening, followed by Islay Scotch all night?  Riddle me that, Batman.  If it is God's plan for the Denver Broncos to go on a 5 game winning streak, for your aunt Penny to meet her soul mate (aka 4th husband) Lenny on, and if it is all part of the Lord's Divine Plan that your kid have spinal bifida, then I guarangoddamntee you that Yahweh drew it up on his X's and O's board that I was to get Native American at a land negotiation drunk on December 23rd.  I would take responsibility for my actions if only I was actually guiding myself through this so-called "life".  But I'm not.  This is God's plan baby, and I'm just along for the ride.  Fuck free will.  Listen, God laid before me a fantastic day of exploring a quaint little town in Central Ohio, and a bar with a highly respectable beer list in said town.  God then guided our sleigh back to my parents' house, where God had the foresight to send me earlier in the morning to a local market to acquire numerous bottles of excellent ale.  God put my young child to slumber and brought to my parents' home excellent friends.  God also placed in the cupboard an excellent bottle of Ardbeg Uigeadail Islay Scotch.  God then ignited a lovely roaring fire in a woodsy setting with a very comfortable sofa on which to lounge.  Now you tell me Johnny Teetotaler....What the fuck was I supposed to do?  Was I to walk up to the man God himself, point at something in the sky with alarm, and then while his attention was diverted upward, swat him as hard as I could in the ball sack with the back of my hand?  Maybe you would bag God, buy I sure as shit am not.  So I did what the Lord intended and got shitfaced.  At least I stumbled--at some point--to bed.  Other players in God's plan for Zach's December 23rd apparently "fell asleep" on the sofa and in a chair, only to be discovered by the matriarch at 3am as Bluegrass was still being broadcast over the stereo from Heaven.  Thankfully for me, God did not want me to have a stiff neck on Christmas Eve.  Only a sour stomach, body-rattling belches, a throbbing skull and constant feeling of being underwater all day. 

I'm Scotch-Irish.  What the fuck do you want from me?   

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

The Only People Who Read "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" are Chicks and Douche Bags

So the question is: Which one am I?  That is fuckin'-A right Peter, I finally caved, traded in my balls, and am fully immersed in TGWTDT.  Just buried in that shit on the bus.  Oh I'm sorry Ms. Octogenarian with the walker and colostomy bag, you can remain standing.  Because your thrice broken hip doesn't have shit on me needing to figure out just how in the mcmutherfuck Blomkvist got drawn into this whole Nordic intrigue in the first place.  Oh and you, little Miss Fell on a Dick and are now 9 1/2 months pregnant, sweating and about to go into labor on my lap.  Give me some fucking space!  I need to get to the moment where we FINALLY meet the bitch with the Medieval dinosaur ink.  I'm NOT FUCKING THERE YET!  Besides, I'm not the one that got all hot and heavy and couldn't stop to run down to 711 for a slushy and 3-pack of Trojans.  So prop your bump on some other schmuck's knee and let me get my story on bitch.  Man, I just hope I run into Oprah somewhere and she asks me about the book.  I'll talk Oprah and her lesbian lover, er I mean best friend, Gayle to Gurnee and back about this Eastern European phantom industry.  I cannot wait!  And to all you little teen bitches out there hoping to be front row tonight for the movie premier........I'm already sitting in the fucking seat with a piss bucket under it.  That is right, my bro Ronnie from back in the day is still night manager at the cineplex and let me in through the alley door last night for a joint and a bag of Grippo's.  You start talking about that hot guy Kevin from first period Chemistry while Daniel Craig is staring into my very soul.....I will bitch slap you back into Generation Y.    

Friday, December 2, 2011

Herman Cain is a Pimp, Deal With It

What Herman Cain has is a pound of Alabama blacksnake, and it ain't too buku.  Old boy likes his trim.  And so fucking what?  Is he a scumbag?  Probably; what politician isn't?  But the big question is, why do people give a shit?  Because the media, and their antiquated, bullshit Puritan heritage makes them care.  But stop and really think about what you are getting pissed over.  Herman Cain is a philanderer.  I fail to see how this is applicable to a potential job as president.  Do these fucktards have any concept in the known world of what morality actually is?  Because they sure as shit don't have a fucking clue what the definition of the word "Hypocrisy" is.  Let's just get a few details out in the open:

-Given he hasn't even won the GOP nomination, we can probably eliminate Democrats as the people orchestrating this witch hunt, or as Cain's official statement says, "They are trying to do a character assassination on me".  Sweet fucking publicist dude, great sentence.  Did you hire Marion Berry as head of PR?  "Bitch set me up!".  Try, "They are conducting a character assassination".  "They are perpetrating a character assassination."  "I'm the victim of a vicious character assassination."  Nope....okay, go with the sentence a 7th grade school yard tough would use then, ya fuck.  Anyway, even if he already had the nomination, the Democrats wouldn't care that he was runnin' all up in hoes for moral reasons, but rather just to throw a red herring in front of the real issue at hand.   

-So it is other GOP hopefuls striking down Herman.  And they know what the new GOP voting base loves: To hate people who are not moral or Jesusy.  And they fucking loves them some HYPOCRISY.  "What the fuck are you talking about Zach?" you might be asking yourself.  Here is what the fuck I'm talking about:  The same assholes who are up in arms about Herman Cain hittin' bitches with his magic stick like it's Whacking Day (Simpsons fans will get it....."Oh Whacking Day, Oh Whacking Day..."), given what I've stated in these two bullet points, are the GOP voting base.  The same voting base who got massive hardons and jizzed all over their own trousers whenever GW Bush launched a murderous, unprovoked attack on completely defenseless brown people in an area of the world their feeble bird brains couldn't even hope to comprehend.  They would never dream of taking a ship to Iraq or Afghanistan for fear it would fall off the end of the flat Earth.  They loved their tax money being used to murder tens of thousands of people so fucking much, they voted his band of armchair warriors right back into office. 

This is what it really comes down to.  Most are a-okay with launching terrorist attacks on people they don't have to look at, so long as it is the in the name of "protecting our freedom", regardless of how many completely innocent people going about their day are killed as human collateral damage.  But hit on a woman who isn't your wife at work, or bang a chick you aren't married to for a couple of years.....that shit ain't gonna stand Jack!  I mean, how could he be Christian if he is committing adultery?  He is TOTALLY Christian if he is killing people all in the name of some abstract concept like Freedom, but not if he is having sex outside of his marriage.  Makes sense. 

Listen, I freely admit I don't know a goddamn thing about Herman Cain.  Not one thing.  I know that he is considered to be near the top of the list of the GOP presidential candidates.  I also know that he is black.  Further, I know that the current yellow-dog voting block of the GOP is the Southeastern United States, and those cats do not like the blacks.  So using logic, I can deduce that this guy is one scary mutherfucker.  Like make Hitler blush sort of shit.  If you are one of the front-runners of a GOP campaign ticket, and you are some shade of brown, you must be a crazy bastard.  That is all I know about Herman Cain the man and candidate.  If he is also a Mississippi Leg Hound, what does that matter?  Does being randy adversely affect job performance as president?  Hell no.  You might want to check out FDR's record, and not on combating poverty or fascism, but on combating skirt.  Dude couldn't even walk and he was crushing it.  Try to find 5 people in the same place, even if that place is Madison Square Garden, who will go on record saying "FDR was a shitty president".  You won't find them, trust me.  I'm not even sure you could scrape together 5 90 year old Germans who could agree they didn't like him.  Or JFK for that matter.  Did snogging Marilyn Monroe and about a dozen other women before-and while in the Oval Office-keep him from giving dominating speeches and making housewives from sea to shining sea swoon?  No, it did not.  So why would Cain's philandering past have any bearing on his ability to be president?  It doesn't.  Stupidity does.  Tough to understand complex international, economic and political issues when you are barely smarter than my goldendoodle.  Which makes it tough to do your job as president without fucking up and leading us into WWIII.  But the new GOP base doesn't care about stupidity, because they are 1 I.Q. point north of "Developmentally Impaired" themselves.  This is why they'll gladly vote for a Sarah Palin or a GW Bush, while seething and demanding blood when a certified genius (the scores are available to prove that he is) like Bill Clinton gets his helmet polished in the White House.  Better to kill many than to get your dick sucked by one.  Poor Slick Willie.  For all the brains in the world, he let the little brain ruin everything.  But like my man Bernie Mac said in "Bad Santa", "Likes to fuck big women.  So what?"  Preach it Bernie, preach it!  So what?  Herman Cain is a straight up playaz playa, so what?  If you like his politics, if you think he would be a great leader, don't pay attention to that noise.  It is meaningless.  If you hate his politics and think he would be a shit leader, you still shouldn't care if he is a pimp.  Listen, if you were in WWII, and about to be launched into an offensive in Italy under the command of General Patton, and you thought he was a stone cold badass, and your balls were absolutely throbbing to kill some fascists in his name, would it matter to you if someone said "Hey, did you know Patton has been tearing up prostitutes all over Marrakech during leave?  AND he has a wife at home!"  Hell no you wouldn't care.  In fact if it was me, I'd be all the more bloodthirsty knowing my commander was not only a badass, but was also crushing ass all over town. 

I also love how when something like this occurs, the skeletons just come marching out of the closet with a whole drum corps and horn section and everything.  Ugly bitches from here to Timbuktu who never said shit in real time, but are suddenly all up in arms about it 20 years later.  Not coincidental at all that the bank is about to foreclose on their home and they are addicted to painkillers.  It was just the "right time" to finally address this long time grievance they've been harboring.  No, I'm not advocating sexual misconduct.  I'm just bashing opportunism. 

*I don't hate Republicans, for the record.  At least not all of them.  I have many close friends and relatives who fall on the rational end of the Republican spectrum.  And just like my Democrat friends and relatives who fall on the rational end of that spectrum, they are dandy by me.  However, when good, competent, smart, decent people go out and vote for a useless tit like, say, GW Bush en masse, all in the name of the "the party", that is when you know your political system is Straight. Up.  Fucked. 

End of chat.  Jesus, I intended this to be about 1-2 paragraphs.  Just a quick zinger.  This is what happens when you drink too much caffeine on a Friday.  Let that be a lesson to you kids: Coffee makes you opinionated.   

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

J Crew has Officially Jumped the Shark

I looked and I looked, but they do not have the photo I need from the just-released December catalog online.  The theme of this current catalog I received in the mail on Monday is "The Italian Alps".  Sure, why the fuck not.  One of the worst economies in modern history, a country on the precipice of being Sandusky'ed into oblivion, sure, fuck it, let's head to the Italian Alps for Christmas.  I mean, who isn't going?  Just grab your incredibly handsome family, a dozen or so of your yuppie/hipster friends, and head off to the fuckin' Alps man.  No big deal.  And not a lodge or a town or any of that bullshit, but rather hang out on top of the peaks.  Right up there above the tree line, in the snow and shit.  And don't be the asshole that shows up in mountaineering gear either.  If you walk in wearing crampons and a snow suit, we're going to laugh you off the fucking mountain.  You don't need any of that shit.  What you do need are some tweeds, some leather, a barn coat, high-end sunglasses, and by all means, bring your sexy.  Do not, and I mean DO FUCKING NOT zip your coat up all the way, if at all.  It is only -17F up here.  Exposed skin and unzipped coats are the fashion du jour these days on top of the Alps.  No wind either.  We're in the fuckin' stratosphere, but luckily no breeze today.  Perfect conditions for carrying Christmassy shit to and fro with no discernible destination in sight.  Just grab this here laurel wreath I found lying around and carry it to this other peak over yonder.  No big deal.  Glad I wore my Sperry Topsiders.   

The picture in question features a tweed "Ludlow Suit".  The smarmy prick in question is, like everyone else, at the pinnacle of the Alps, as indicated by the treeless vista behind him featuring stone-cold granite peaks sticking out through the ice and snow (I don't know if the Alps are granite.  If not, any geology major readers please inform me.).  Presumably at Christmas the pinnacle of the Alps are a bit chilly.  But our heroine seems impervious to these conditions.  He is gallivanting about with a perfectly coiffed hairdid, Wayfarer sunglasses, an unbuttoned tweed suit, a Fair Isle sweater over a button up, very smart silver buckle belt, and last but not least, some suede boots.  And of course he is toting some Christmas shit, in this case a a rather lovely Christmas tree that he has sawed perfectly off at the trunk with the saw that he doesn't possess.  I guess I would give J Crew a pass, albeit a very temporary hall pass, and only for enough time to go #1, not #2 or #3, if they were in some village near the base of the Italian Alps.  But no, they make sure it looks like they are at the tip-tippity-fucking-top of one of the world's most severe mountain ranges.  So dickbag:

Glad the hair stayed nice and lightly mussed.  That can only help when you raise a sifter of hot Sambuca and toast the comely young lass you plan to bed, later that night by the roaring fire.

Good choice on the Wayfarers.  Some may think that mountain summits in the dead of winter are best served by snow goggles to protect from wind, and side protection given the sun glare is 360 degrees on snowpack.  Those people are cunts.  You and I--Sir--know that you want high and proud cat's eye frame perched precariously on the bridge of your nose, with the sides of your eyes free and easy-sleazy to gander at hoes as you waltz around the Alps.  You need not a strap to fix the spectacles to your head in high mountain winds.  Your assured, cock-of-the-walk strut is all you need to keep glasses on heads.

When you are high on the peak, looking down on the world and admiring all you've conquered, you want to look merry.  And what looks merrier than a charcoal gray suit left wide open to the elements, with a simply ravishing Fair Isle pattern sweater peeking cheekily out from beneath, just openly challenging a blizzard to come along and try to ruin its good time.  "Ga' head cunt, I dares 'ya to try and blow Tweedy Burd offa the maaanin'!"

What stands up to--and fist fights if necessary--deep powder, slush and ice?  Suede.  Though not quite as well as canvas, it is very close. Get yourself some fresh, non-waterproof suede boots, and your feet will be as warm and dry as a cloudless day in an August hay field. 

And where, might you ask, is he dragging that beautiful Christmas tree to?  Fuck you, that's where.  It doesn't matter where the tree came from.  It matters less that he is clearly well above the tree line and there is no vegetation existing in any form.  Completely irrelevant that there are no tree-felling tools to be found.  What does matter, what is relevant here, is that a handsome man, dressed devastatingly smart from head to toe, is walking about above the clouds carrying a tree.  Where he is taking it is for the philosophers to debate.  Once again J Crew, you've outdone yourself.  You've taken a dump on Christmas.  Would it kill you to portray, for once, the REAL fucking Christmas.  Show a whiskey-soaked Kentucky Christmas, on the east side, deep in them mountains.  Not the Alps, but the Apps, son.  Show uncle Lester in his new khakis, down in the basement with the Youngins, playin' a little game 'o "Let Uncle Lester Whistle in Yer Holler".  Let the people see grandma, at a sprightly 41 years old, Merit dangling precariously from her lower lip, as she screams at her common law son-in-law for not "fuckin' me right" while her daughter Bessie-Sue was pregnant with their most recent, 6th child.  In her merino wool v-neck and blackwatch skirt.  We want to see Uncle Bear out in the shed, showin' the men-folk his newly stolen copper still.  Corn mash trickling down his partially-paralyzed face onto his plaid flannel shirt and wiped clean with his shearling-lined leather gloves.  Quit Nancy-pantsing around with the Eurotrash in the Alps and bring us something real, J Crew. 

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Say it Ain't So, Joe

You know when you hear someone reference "Riding off into the sunset?".  Well, this is the exact opposite of that.  In a matter of days Penn State's reputation in the college sports world has gone from bastion of integrity and shining example of doing things the right way, to a place where young boys get their shit raped, in the fucking sickest, most vile manner you can imagine.  The Penn State football locker rooms and showers were just a Gimp shy of the "Zed's Dead" scene in Pulp Fiction.  And who knows, for all the covering up the assholes in charge have done, there may have been a special locker in the facility where the gimp slept.  Joe Paterno had the most golden of opportunities to leave on a high note when in 2005 he won the Orange Bowl against Florida State and their own past his expiration date coach Bobby Bowden.  But he didn't.  And now this.  His long time defensive coordinator, the man once in line to replace him at PSU, Jerry Sandusky is charged with various deviant sexual attacks on--at minimum--8 different boys.  And we're not talking about PSU football players here.  We're talking about young boys.  That couldn't much defend themselves.  Who were attending a boys camp.  Run by Jerry Sandusky.  Fucking YUCKY.  I can't even put enough :( 's in this post to express how vile this is.  On the one hand you want to feel sorry for JoePa.  He's coached the Nittany Lions for 40+ years and is an institution in college sports, a god in State College, PA.  Although we cannot be sure of anything here, presumably he's never raped any little boys.  He is now staring down being remembered as the guy who let boys get diddled in his locker room.  Whether fair or not, that is what will be left in everyone's collective memory: JoePa let some dude bang kids in the locker room.  When Joe was told by a graduate assistant that he saw Sandusky in the shower with a 10 year old boy, Joe met his minimum requirement by reporting this to his employer.  With emphasis on "minimum requirement".  Joe now says that he didn't take it further because the graduate assistant didn't give him details as to what he saw.  Fuck off Joe.  Even if this GA said, "JoePa, I just saw Sandusky in the shower with a 10 year old boy, doing what I believe was a Shakespeare in the Shower production of "The Rape of Persephone"", you coulda, absofuckinglutely shoulda done more.  I come from a family flush with law-talkers, and I know enough to realize that going to the police with only this information isn't much, but...."Hey, this GA saw something that sounds real bad in our locker rooms.  I didn't see it myself, and I know this is a fishing expedition at this point, but given the nature of what he says he saw, I want professionals to at least be aware."  Boom, done.  JoePa wants to skate on this chicken-shit "He wasn't real clear about what he saw in there".  Well guess what Joe, ain't gonna happen.  Just these three words should have resulted in a trip to the detective's station: "Sandusky......Boy......Shower".  Yeah Joe, you told your boss.  Good fucking job.  If I walked into the bathroom right now and saw one of our longest tenured employees in a shitter stall with a young boy, and somebody's dick was out--anybody's--I would walk into my boss's office, say "Hey, apparently Touchy McKidrape is a diddler.  You might want to report this to upper management.  The next thing I am doing is walking out of this office and calling 911, FYI".  And if it turns out this was a Thai hooker with a baby-face and a boy's haircut, and this guy is authorized by the entity we work for to fuck people in common areas, well I can live with that mistake knowing that I erred on the side of not only caution, but human fucking decency.  Sure, probably an embarrassing moment when management takes me aside to tell me hey, Touchy is permitted to fuck people who are of the age of consent in our bathrooms.  Mind your own fucking business next time, shitheel.  Egg on my face for sure, but my conscience is crystal clear.  And I'm an absolute nobody.  Literally like 7 people know who I am.  I am in charge of nothing.  Nobody expects a goddamn thing from me.  None of this applies to you JoePa.  You see, when you hang on into your 80's and become bigger than the program itself, and absorb all the love and adulation for being JoePa, the leader of men, the "every man", the "doing it the right way guy", well, you can't fucking hide from the bad things.  You are Penn State.  As a result, when an underling tells you he saw your right-hand man of 3 decades of coaching and winning titles anal-raping a child on school property--football showers to be precise--you react in a manner befitting JoePa the Institution.  That does not mean you report "something" to your boss (and who is really your fucking boss Joe?  No one, that is who.  You run shit in State College.  Act like it.) and then forget about it for 9 years while a known pederast is cruising around campus any time he feels like it.  You think Woody Hayes would have reported something like this to the Ohio State AD and then went about his business and never asked why the police weren't involved?  Hell no.  Woody probably would have gone to the deviant's house unannounced one night with 6 lineman carrying pipes and blow-torches, locked the door behind himself, and asked the piece of shit if he'd made his peace with God.  If you had come up to me out of the clear blue sky one day 2 weeks ago, and said "Who in this world absolutely does not stand for banging young boys?", there is a decent chance my first answer would have been, "Well, Joe Paterno sure as shit doesn't stand for that sort of tomfoolery".  But not this day Kemosabe.  It appears Joe Paterno does stand for that shit, so long as it doesn't interrupt his pursuit of all-time Division I football wins leader Eddie Robinson.  Good for you JoePa, this shit didn't hit the fan until a week after you eclipsed that all-important record.  Raped boys or no raped boys, you are Numero Uno my friend. 

And what, you might ask, would be an "appropriate response" for JoePa?  Here is the answer: Any fucking thing JoePa damn well pleased, as long as it resulted in NO MORE BOYS GETTING RAPED.  He could have literally done ANYTHING in that town, and no one would say bully about it.  When your graduate assistant tells you Sandusky is giving little 'uns the 'ol in-out in facilities you built with your national championships, you walk into a diner where Sandusky is enjoying his coffee, stroll over to his table, pull out a gun, and shoot him right in the goddamned face.  As the crowd looks at you in shocked silence, say "Eight year olds Dude" and walk right out.  Police would probably give you a medal.  "Thanks for saving the taxpayers the burden of prosecuting that piece of shit, Joe!" they'd say.  "Beat Michigan next week Joe" the crowd roars as you receive yet another key to the city. 

I really hope this finally puts into perspective Ohio State players trading their signature for skin art.  I truly hope it does.  I'm no psychologist, but I think most alumni polled would prefer that football players sign a poster and receive ink of Biggie and Tupac in Heaven on their back over disadvantaged young boys getting ass-slammed at summer camp in their football locker room, any day of the week and twice on Sunday.  I may be wrong on this, but I'd be willing to wager a hefty sum to back my answer on this one. 

I do not apologize for the length of this tome.  I do not.  We all lost this week.  Every last one of us.  If I cannot expect--no, actually if I cannot fully count on with no reservations--JoeFuckingPaterno going absolutely batshit Michael Douglas in "Falling Down" + Sly Stallone in First Blood x The Aliens in "Aliens", all cubed, berzerker and having to be pulled off Sandusky's jugular by police after he hears about kids getting raped in his locker rooms, then tell me this: What the fuck can I count on?

End of rant.  Really I'd like to say more, but I've got shit to do.  However, if someone tells me they saw someone bangin' kids in the shower at my house, I will gladly stop what I'm doing and handle it like a grown ass man. 

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Oh Pork Arm, Why So Serious?

You clutch that hand rail with all your strength, Pork Arm.  You glare at us all.  Your tormentors, your oppressors.  Those who entered the bus before you, taking those empty seats.  You got on the bus too late for open seats, Pork Arm.  So you stand, and you glare.  You are mad that we sit, that we comfortably read, that we rest our weary feet at the end of a long day toiling for the man.  But most of all, you are mad that our arms are not ham.  Being the sassy little swine-arm that you are, you've chosen to celebrate this warmer-than-usual autumn day with sleevelessness.  You let the world bask in the briny, basting glow of your ample tricep fat.  As the bus heaves to and fro, so to does your meat wing, but in opposite directions.  Each person who, through no choice of their own, accidentally makes contact with you as they pass, unable to avoid such an eventuality due to the width of bus aisles and your ample girth, is met with a scowl, a grunt, a pork-push-back.  But Pork Arm, stop.  We, your fellow bus patrons, do not hog(double entendre anyone?)-tie you to your sofa day in, day out, feeding you salt chips and ice cream against your will.  No one wants to touch you, trust me.  So calm the fuck down and take your fat aggression out on something which isn't innocent, like Domino's or mayonaisse.  Cheer up Pork Arm, brighter days are ahead.  Not for you so much, but for others.   

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

The Scout Chronicles: Nope, They Made Me a Fuckin' Wizard

This was the bullshit of all bullshits.  I told these assholes I wanted to be a vicious Werewolf for Halloween.  And instead I get dolled up like some girly Gandolph.  I didn't even get a fuckin' staff to hit people with and perpetrate spells and shit.  My parents are the biggest cock-blocking idiots in Chicago.  Yes, I said cock-blockers.  Bitches at the local dog runs were swooning when I told them I was going to be a Werewolf.  Then I hear all the dogs barking laughter as I was forced to march around Old Town against my will as the Golden Wizard.  Even my little sister got to be a Bear.  Shit, compared to a Wizard I would have LOVED to be a bear.  She had claws and big feet and shit.  And she didn't even care.  Cried when they put her in it, acted bored as all hell, then fell asleep as a bear.  If I'd gotten to be some ruthless predator of an animal, you wouldn't have seen apathy like that out of the ol' Scouter.  I would have been tearing shit up right and left.  I would have even shown people that sometimes a Bear shits in the city.  But no, I'm gallivanting about town like some dainty Merlin with my dick in my paw, not even able to smash people or put spells on them with my staff....because I don't fucking have one.  You know, Scout gets pushed and he gets pushed, but for how far until he bares the teeth and makes them pay for their transgressions?  Now I'm going to be walked through Old Town today with everydog laughing their tits off at the Scoutmeister.  Just pigs in shit at my humiliation.  They'll be barking, "Hey Scout, real fucking trail of blood and tears you left behind last night with that staff-less wizard costume asshole!" and "Scout, can I go ahead and tell my owners to put the silver bullets back into storage?".  Laugh it up fuckers.  One of these Halloweens my inner Werewolf will be realized, and then you'll all be sorry.  Mom was mouthing off about how "Scout, you are lucky, your best friend Penelope didn't even get to dress up at all."  That would be a great point mom....if Penelope wasn't a fucking St. Bernard!  She gets to be Cujo every year of her goddamn life!

As an aside, one small upside to last night was that mom and dad let me stay up and watch the original Halloween with them.  Michael Myers is straight up LEGIT.  When I finally do get my Werewolf costume, that is how the Scoutmeister is going to go about his business, all methodical and shit with no emotion or barking. 

Monday, October 31, 2011

The Scout Chronicles: Scout is Going to be so Badass for Halloween

You have no idea what a stone-cold badass I'm going to be for Halloween tonight.  No fucking clue.  Okay, here is a clue: I'm going to be a gnarley-assed Werewolf.  Stick-up ears, fangs, giant claws, the whole nine.  You encounter Scout on the street tonight, you get your shit chomped.  Bottom line.  You see Scout coming looking straight up sinister with blood dripping off his Werewolf fangs, you'd better either be faster than Scout (Yeah right) or have a whole pocket full of silver fucking bullets.  If not, peace out bitch.  The Scoutmeister is taking no prisoners, and offering no quarter.  You try and hand Scout a fucking apple or some beat-ass stale Charleston Chew when he comes knocking, you are losing your arm.  No exceptions.  Consider this your warning.  Mom and Dad had better not even fucking DREAM of making me anything other than a Werewolf.  Like if I see them pulling some stupid hot dog, or pussy-assed pumpkin costume out of the closet tonight, I will go real-deal Werewolf berzerker and just start biting everyone in site.  Believe that shit.  I've been telling everyone at the dog park that I am bringing the noise as a Werewolf, all month.  If Mom and Dad make me look stupid there will be severe hell to pay. 

OMG I am so fired up for tonight I can hardly fucking wait.  All the other Halloween Werewolves will probably make me their leader and we'll go on this super-awesome Werewolf rampage through the streets of Old Town and Lincoln Park just laying waste to mutherfuckers.  Scout out front of the Werewolf pack biting here, claw-swatting people's heads clean off there.  Gonna be the most kick-ass Halloween ever.    

Friday, October 28, 2011

Oh When the Sluts, Go Marching In....Oh Lord I Want to be In that Number...Oh When the Sluts Go Marching In!

It doesn't matter if you are a 14 year old boy walking down the hall of your high school hiding a boner with your Algebra textbook freshman year; a drunk frat guy; a 20-something associate at a law/accounting/marketing firm; a 30-something married guy with a baby at home; or an octogenarian upon the porch of the assisted living facility....Halloween weekend is your weekend!  This is when every gal from Pismo to Provincetown, from Fond du Lac to Fort Lauderdale, and all points in between, come out of the woodwork and let their inner trollop run free.  Here a slut, there a slut, everywhere a butt-slut!  There is a slut to fit every personality: Slutty Nurse; Slutty Pirate; Slutty Snow White; Slutty Devil; Slutty Cat; Slutty Tiger; Farm Slut; Swedish Maid Slut; Slutty Blackjack Dealer; Slutty Kardashian Sister (Haha, tried to slide an oxymoron by you there, you're too smart for that shit); Catholic School Slut; Slutty Angel (Or Victoria's Secret model, if you're nasty); Slutty Cowgirl; Slutty Princess; Slutty Bumble Bee; Slutty Teacher; Slut Witch; Vampire Slut; really only your own imagination can limit what kind of slut you can be that night.  This is also what makes Halloween so dangerous.  Women who use this one night each year to air their inner-strumpet grievances to the world cause shitfaced men to believe that just because they are jutting their ass out from beneath a mini-skirt in every Halloween photo they take like Little Red Riding Slut up there, that they want to be taken home and treated as such.  Not so much.  Sure, there are those who use this as free, honest advertising, and Crom bless them for that.  But for most, this is an opportunity to act out some inhibitions in appearance only.  Which leads to a lot of poor, rejected, bombed men who must then go home and smoke grass and watch original "Halloween" until their fucking eyes bleed.  This can also lead to a lot of sexual frustration for those who do manage to get Kitten Slut back to their home, only to find out that if you want the milk, you've got to feed, water, and change her litter box for 3 months first  :(  .  So be careful gentlemen; though a Sexy Leopard may lick her paws and purr at you all night, penetration does not this guarantee. 

So all you lecherous bastards out there, let the slut parade begin!  And if you've committed to going out with your significant other this weekend, I highly recommend a costume which necessitates a pair of dark glasses.  Terminator, Top Gun, Cyclops from X-Men, Child Molester, whatever.  You don't want your wandering eyes to result in you losing out on guaranteed intercourse later that night.  Everyone loses there.   

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Terry Thompson, Hope You Read Dante's "Inferno", You Asshole

Because you are going straight to the 7th Level.  You are not going to pass GO, you will not collect $200.  You are going to be skull-fucked in an eternal hell fire.  You cowardly, putrid, diseased rhinoceros pizzle.  I was so saddened, and I mean like end of Old Yeller saddened, when I found out you successfully killed yourself.  I'd envisioned you being raped savagely and repeatedly by grizzly bears and lions before one of them dealt the death blow to your jugular.  But alas you are nothing but a selfish cunt who has destroyed 4 dozen wild animals that never did shit to you.  I want to rail against Sheriff Lutz and his deputies who killed most of the animals, but I wasn't there.  I doubt a contingency plan was in place for what to do if you encounter 50 exotic wild predators in rural Ohio.  I'm pretty certain that the first responders with the assault rifles were like little kids on Christmas morning when they found out they could indiscriminately kill a shitload of big game animals that would otherwise require them to pay about $500,000 and go to either British Columbia or Africa.  But I wasn't sitting there with them in the rain staring down a grizzly bear, so I'll refrain from harping on this point.  I wish calls could have been made while the 25 animals still on the site were just hanging out next to their cages to see how long it would take for an appropriate response team to arrive and deal with them.  But again, I am neither charged with protecting the human citizenry of Zanesville nor was I in a Mexican staring contest with a lion.  Fault lies with the state of Ohio for allowing people to keep exotic pets, and with Terry Thompson, the raging fuckface of the year who is too big a pussy to face the music.  If you were really an animal "rescuer", then I'm quite certain you would not have released all these animals into their certain doom before you canceled yourself.  And I'm pretty sure you were hoping they took a few humans down along the way.  The only good news to come out of this sad story is that you are fucking dead and no one is going to have to deal with your loser ass ever again.  Rest In whatever the opposite of Peace is.  Dick.

I like animals more than humans, and it isn't a close contest.  If a golden retriever and some dude I don't know are both about to wash over Niagara Falls, and I have only one stick to extend and save one of them....well, lets just say some family is going to be really happy to get their dog back. 

Monday, October 17, 2011

Tasting Notes: Rockmill Brewery's "Saison"

It was the type of autumn day that a man must live to know that he was there.  He can view it in a Van Gogh painting, the "Wheat Stacks with Reaper", and many of the like.  But he'll never truly understand unless he takes the leather-handled reaper into his own two hands and slashes at field upon endless fields of early autumn wheat.  As I, Jean Luc and my eternal friend, Pierre, retired from the fields on this particular day, having reaped harvest wheat from before sun-up until late in the majestic purple-hued dusk, we stopped at our steady haunt, the Libertine, for sustenance.  By this time the staff at the Libertine knew our order better than ourselves, and within mere seconds there stood at our table a plate of meats, cheeses, baguette and most importantly a tall pot of the only beer capable of standing up to such a day of rich, rewarding labor: Rockmill Brewery's "Saison".  As I took my first deep, long draught of Rockmill's Saison I lived anew my day of laboring in the fields.  It was the autumn day of dreams, with an unbroken sky of breath-stealing blue and warm, though not hot, sun to keep my neck and hands from requiring cover.  As Pierre backhanded the crisp, hoppy froth of Rockmill Saison from his own mouth he reminded me of why we were here, in a backwater village west of Charleville Mezieres, to wile away our days in the fields as hired laborers.  Pierre and I were not born to the fields as all of those noble, crooked-backed villagers we now sought refuge in the company of.  We met at university many years ago, our friendship forged over debates about who was the greatest philosopher, Sartre or Nietzsche, of Dumas's masterpieces, and of the folly of Napoleon attacking the Russian winter.  Those early days were spent with forgettable though affordable beers of the city.  None truly satiated a man's spirit like Rockmill Saison.  Whether it was the misplaced energy of youth or the poorly-crafted beers we consumed like so many empty-headed and silly-hearted coeds (i.e. chicks we banged), Pierre and I found ourselves in soul-crushing positions as government workers, on the pension fast-track.  It was the best of times, and it was the worst of times.  Though we seemed to be sailing through life with good friends, comely wenches, and plenty of ales, we knew something was missing.  On a Saturday trip into the countryside to make sport of quail, a local boy served us our first blessed pot of Rockmill Saison.  As the sparse but delicious brew began to course through our veins we felt alive for the first time.  Its golden hops demanded we surrender our trite and meaningless existence, trading it all for the honor and discipline of a life in the sun and the fields.  And so it was that we sold our apartments in the St. Germain/Luxembourg district of Paris and took a loft above a barn in this quintessential northern France farming community.  We require little but air, honest work, the smile of a farm maiden, and of course shitloads of Rockmill Saison.  It is the wellspring from which our spiritual awakening flows.  Without Rockmill Saison it would be as though we never were. 

I really don't know if the above story is true.  Once when I was in college a guy named Lucien from one of the Baltic republics, sinister looking little scamp with a waxed moustache and greasy trousers, saw me coming out of the library early of a Friday evening on a holiday weekend.  He asked me if "You want we make go to discotheque?".  After politely refusing, he then recommended I take this small piece of paper with a Degas painting on it upon my tongue.  Given that I am not the type of person who turns someone down twice, I placed the small square on my tongue and bid Lucien g'day.  I had to run back into the library before it closed to retrieve the keys I left on a study table.  That is the last thing I remember.  When building security found me on Tuesday morning I was in the French Literature section lying upon a pile of books saturated with urine.  I could quote entire Moliere plays and I was wearing a beret fashioned from Friday's copy of the school newspaper.  But that is neither here nor there my friends.  The point is that I recently drank my bottle of Rockmill Brewery Saison.  I must divulge the following before I continue: I really don't care that much for Saisons.  I don't dislike them, but they are certainly not my favorite.  That being said, this Saison is kicking ass and taking names.  It is refreshing, it is delicious, and chicks dig it.  I don't possess the requisite bullshit to discuss beer in all the preferred beer-nerd nomenclature and I'm not sure I understand how to quaff shit.  As stated Saisons are not my thing per se, but this one is "right", and I know enough to acknowledge that.  I would liken it to your first french kiss.  You may not know what you are doing or what you are looking for, and you soon realize you are licking a soppy sponge that may or may not taste like cigarettes and Jolly Ranchers.....but yet it is still right.  You know enough to know that.  If this Saison is enough to make my mouth ecstatic, then I'm confident it will taste ball-rattlingly good to seasoned Saison fans.     

If you take nothing else from these tasting notes, you should take the following: Cheese-eating surrender monkey French everywhere should be quaking in their stockings.  Queue up the Toby fucking Keith, because Rockmill gives us reason anew "to be prowwwd ta be an Meriken..."  You frolicking little frogs cannot even out-Saison us anymore.  This could be the 1976 Judgment of Paris all over again, only this time an outfit from southeast Ohio is going to take home the gold.  You heard me right fuckers, "southeast Ohio".  At least when you are losing to California you can take solace in the fact that California is pretty fucking cool, and Jerry Lewis probably hangs out there.  Not so much with Ohio.  And this isn't Cleveland, Cincinnati, or even Columbus.  This is Lancaster, Jack.  If this Saison wants to come and storm the beach at Normandy, it will.  Fair warning. 

Thursday, October 13, 2011

So the Chicago Marathon was Pretty Fun

Pretty fun little day on Sunday.  Got things started with my daughter adding a couple of extra wake-ups Saturday night to make sure I was on full tilt.  Wouldn't want me going into this thing overly fresh now would we?  This was of course after going to bed pissed off about the Ohio State football team who, coaches included, folded faster than the Danish in World War II against a half-shitty Nebraska team.  I had everything ready to go and walked out the door in plenty of time.  I could've walked to the Red Line and taken it to Jackson, then walked to the starting area.  But I didn't want to waste valuable leg strength, so I got a cab.  When he pulled up he was ripping a butt.  Ciggy smoke is like the top thing you want to inhale right before you run for 4 hours, at 6:30 a.m.  The first thing I tell the Marlboro Man is that everything is closed, so he needs to go west, track north or south, then back east to Lake Shore Drive, where he can deposit me and I can take a short trek to the start.  He nods his head in agreement, then proceeds to head due east into the first of 4 blocked roads.  The blocked roads I told him would be blocked before we even left my building.  Awesome part was, at each police blockade he would slam on the brakes like a baby had just crawled in front of the cab, and curse loudly in Farsi.  Then he would, without heeding anything behind him, screech the tires in reverse and drive one block south, before heading east again into the next police blockade, again the same blockade I told him was most surely there to begin with.  After the 4th attempt he looked at me with the exasperated face of the truly stupid person who doesn't believe what is happening to them, even though the thing that is happening to them is by far and away the most probable-and in fact expected-outcome.  So this fucktard drops me off at Grand and Wells, where I am forced to jog to the Red Line.  Once underground, I realized I don't have the proper change for the ticket.  I proceed to the woman stationed in the kiosk, who wanted me to fuck off and in no uncertain terms die painfully for even requesting that she listen to me say something.  I wanted change for a $10, given that I had only 2 $1's and a $10, and the fare is $2.50.  She could not believe I would have both the audacity and stupidity to make such a preposterous request.  She had no intentions of humoring my request, and directed me "To a Walgreens or somethin'".  Luckily a police officer made change, and I was able to descend further into the bowels of Chicago, where of course the Red Line took its sweet assed fucking time arriving.  By the time I exit at Jackson I am forced to not jog, but rather run to the starting corral, passing people pissing in the trees and bushes (including chicks).  Although winded, chock full of anxiety, and thoroughly pissed the fuck off, I am happy to see that it is assholes-to-elbows in the starting corral.  An added bonus is that 50% of the runners thought it folly to brush their teeth that morning.  I was forced to endure nearly 20 minutes of stenching small talk about such compelling subjects as "We're at the Chicago Marathon baby!" and "Where are you from?".  I knelt down to make a last-minute adjustment to my shoe laces, which is when I inhaled my first second-hand fart of the day.  It was a heavy pea-soup fog of a fart, with a long finish.  This person was not going to have a good day.  I conservatively estimate that I inhaled approximately 873 farts by the end of the race.

And we're a herd of turtles.  It takes me 6 1/2 minutes just to get to the starting line.  The temperature is already well into the 60's which might not seem like a big deal to most.  But when it is going to finish near 80 and you're running for 4 hours, it fecking sucks.  The fact that I cannot pee next to a tree with 1,000 onlookers (fuckin' Puritan ancestors) results in me running the first 3 miles carrying around a gallon of piss.  Once I relieved myself of that burden, things weren't too bad.  For a while.  Then somewhere in the neighborhood of 15-17 miles, you leave the tree lined and building-shadowed streets behind for wide-open, sun-drenched boulevards on the near west and south side.  And you are fucking hating it.  It becomes the Bataan Death March, and you are most assuredly not the Japanese soldiers.  Your thoughts begin to drift into the realm of darkness.  You are no longer capable of positivity.  I know there are people who claim that it makes them happy, in those moments when they are at the gates of hell.  Those people are either lying, or they are crazier than a rat in a tin shithouse.  From roughly mile 20 on, I was wishing destruction and pestilence on people.  Not on certain individuals, but rather large groups of people.  I wanted a population I'd never met to be struck by a natural disaster.  I wanted children to discover there is no Santa Claus.  I wanted Republicans to be forced to interact with black people.  I wanted to laugh at the end of Old Yeller.  I wished rain upon all parades and hoped that Mr. Potter finally got George thrown in prison.  I no longer cared about the crowd or my fellow runners.  I just wanted to drag my corpse across the finish and be done with the whole miserable affair.  Alas my torment was over as some poor lass had to put a medal around my sweaty fucking neck and smell my death breath as I rasped "Thank You".  I did not proceed to the party area and claim my free 312 beer from Goose Island.  In fact as I walked west across the Balbo bridge like an old man looking for a suitable place to die I encountered two men drinking their 312 victory beers.  I asked them if it actually tasted good.  They looked at me like I had a giant cock growing out of my forehead before one of them replied, "Dis izz dah best bier I've had in mye liife".  Great, as a final indignity I had two Germans thinking me a pussy of colossal proportions and wondering how in the fuck they ever let a country of teetotaling twats best them twice on the world stage. 

And now home to celebrate my victory.  I'm eating 7 burgers for lunch with 6 heavy beers, and then washing it down with a dinner pizza and two bottles of wine.  Or at least that is what I threatened to no one during second half of the race.  What really happened is that I was sick to my stomach and had a throbbing headache, so I ate some, but not much, and managed to choke down a total of 2.5 beers in approximately 8 hours.  What a fucking stud.  The Nazis at the finish were right to scorn me.  I went to bed early and sober like a little bitch. 

I will say this: It is an amazing feeling to be running the marathon and get passed in the first mile by some fat fuck who is on a sugar high from the pasta dinner he/she had at Maggiano's (aka Chicago's Olive Garden) the night before, with a fanny pack loaded to bursting with two dozen Power Shot Gels, only to fly by their bloated, cramping corpse 5 miles later as they realize they've no chance at finishing this thing still running.  Way to take it easy on the start, Pork Chop.   

Chicago Marathon, catch the FEVER!                 

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Happy (Belated) Mass-Murdering Genocidal Asshole Day Everyone!

I apologize for being a day late on this, but we've been having Internet issues at What Sucks Now world headquarters.  The IT department has been sacked, and we're hoping to be fully operational again real soon.  Columbus Day is truly one of the great American holidays.  I'd like to offer my favorite Christopher Columbus quote to commemorate all of his great accomplishments.  And please keep in mind, this is taken directly from his journal, shortly after landing on Hispaniola.  In Chris's own words:

"They ... brought us parrots and balls of cotton and spears and many other things, which they exchanged for the glass beads and hawks' bells. They willingly traded everything they owned... . They were well-built, with good bodies and handsome features.... They do not bear arms, and do not know them, for I showed them a sword, they took it by the edge and cut themselves out of ignorance. They have no iron. Their spears are made of cane... . They would make fine servants.... With fifty men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want."

Now this is a fuckin' guy we can all feel good about.  I'm so goddamned proud that we've set aside a day to celebrate this complete and utter fucking asshole and megalomaniac, not to mention unapologetic genocidal thief.  Think about the staggering number of peaceable native peoples who died as a result of this fuckstick.  Please tell me, and be honest with yourself, how this is ANY different than if Germany were to declare a civic, banking, and school holiday to celebrate Adolf Hitler Day?  Seriously, how would it be different?  Both were responsible for the cold, calculated deaths of millions of people.  Both knew exactly what they were doing, in fact wrote about it in journals.  But we celebrate Columbus like some guy that rode into town on a white horse and liberated millions.  In a way he did; he liberated them from their land, their possessions, their families and their lives.  But he is celebrated because he made it possible for white people to arrive, steal, murder, and then claim an entire continent as "theirs".  And since these very same white people are now in charge of history books and government, they tell filthy, dirty lies to our youths proclaiming CC a "great man" and "discoverer".  Ask someone from Scandinavia how they feel about CC's status as "discoverer".  Ummm, sorry bro, but Leif Eriksson landed on the Western Hemisphere a couple centuries before you.  Unfortunately prior commitments prevented Leif from slaughtering all the natives as was surely his intentions.  But he still beat your ass in that particular race. 

And here folks is the reason I could never become a high school history teacher as I considered, and according to my mother's wishes.  Can you imagine the "These Colors Don't Run", Dale Earnhardt "Angel Wings on #3", and Calvin pissing on the Toyota symbol bumper sticker crowd that would arrive at my office on Parent-Teacher Conference night as soon as they found out I'm teaching their kids the truth rather than the government-approved horseshit from the textbook company?  They'd run my commie/terrorist ass out of town, tarred-and-feathered, on a fucking rail.  Hillbillies would show up with pitchforks and torches, adorned in Stars and Bars regalia, demanding that I be burned at the stake.  I wouldn't last a year.  Hell, I might not literally live through 1 quarter.  Which brings up an interesting point.....Do I try to teach my own daughter some day about the factual story of our own history, or just let it go as "Ignorance is bliss"???  This is a serious inquiry.  On the one hand, I don't want her to conduct self-directed reading some day and discover the truth on her own and then come at me with "Dad, why didn't you tell me?" and break my goddamed stone cold heart.  But then again, do I want her raising her hand in 6th grade and kindly informing the teacher that Thomas Jefferson banged and had a bastard child with his house slave Sally Hemings, and also died in massive debt?  I'm rather sure she will be victim to many a savage beating on the playground by the children with IQs of 90 who proclaim her a "Traitor to our country".  So it is a really difficult decision.  I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, and the route I take will likely be heavily correlated to my state of intoxication at the time.      

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Brett Favre Douche-O-Meter

In recent radio interview, Brett Favre said that (referring to his replacement Aaron Rodgers, who is proving to be better than Brett Favre) he didn't understand what took his replacement so long to win a Super Bowl.  Went even further and said that Rodgers has more talent around him than Brett Favre ever had when he was there, insinuating that Rodgers's achievement is less than Brett Favre's.   

Threat Level:


Expect Brett Favre to continue to take credit for recent Green Bay Packer success while seeking to discredit accomplishments of actual Green Bay Packers who are dominating without Brett Favre as part of the organization.  Expect Brett Favre to wallow in media adulation of his accomplishments in ancient history while Brett Favre acts like it is no big deal and he is just a good 'ol boy from Missuhsipp who likes goin' out in the back yard and throwin' the pigskin round with 'is daddy and some hounds.  Don't expect Brett Favre to ever go the fuck away and shut his attention whore mouth. 

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

I Need to Get my "Light Therapy" License

People need to quit hating on Feely McTouchowitz up there.  Guy is trying to get some cheap, middle-school poontang action by hook or by crook.  Why ya gotta hate on a playa?  Some people try to feel some boobies and get laid using their looks or wit, which is just fine.  My man here tries to rub his junk on chicks' legs by becoming the pastor of a non-existent church and telling women he is healing them through "Light Therapy"; whats the fucking difference?  Last time I checked, this was America, Jack.  The country known for go-getters using their own wiles to make their way in the world.  That is all Philip Livingston is trying to do, and you are going to go and put him in jail for it.  What the fuck ever, comrade.  Philip did what any other red-blooded American male whose concrete business went belly up amidst charges of criminality would do: He ordained himself the leader of an uber-creepy "religious" sect and told chicks that if they followed him into the back room of his house he could heal them of everything from depression to yeast infections by everyone getting nude and feeling each other.  So to those of you who have never done the same, throw the first fucking stone.  And guess what?  Women actually followed him into the back room, took off their clothes, and let him fondle them.  Sounds like a victimless crime to me.  There needs to be limits on how far governments should have to go to protect people from their own stupidity.  I certainly don't authorize any of my tax money being spent to prosecute this pussy entrepreneur.  This is how the conversation should go:

Policeman: "So let me get this straight....An obese man, with beady eyes, 1981 eyeglass frames, and a child-molesting moustache if ever there was one, has ordained himself high priest of a non-recognized religiousish cult, brought you to services in a really shitty house, then told you to follow him to a back room, get naked while he gets naked, then he rubbed your areolas while he asked you to tickle his bag and then sniff your fingers all in the name of curing your eczema....and you said 'Yes'?  Do I have this correct?"

Clinically Stupid Bitch: "Yes officer, that is how it happened"

Policeman: "You have already been punished Miss.  Now go fuck off somewhere."

If you are as downright cow-chewing-cud-in-the-rain stupid as these women clearly are, then guess what?  Blame Darwin.  Don't go trying to pin the blame on Philip.  When you look like him you use your brains to cop a feel any which way but loose.  It isn't his fault you are stupid enough to let it happen.  These women should be thanking their lucky stars that this is 2011 AD and not 20,011 BC.  They got off easy only having sticky tits courtesy of the above moustache.  If it were 20,011 BC the swifter predators aren't as forgiving as Reverend Philip.  Saber-toothed tigers don't tweak nipples.  At least in this instance you live to fight another day.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Blue Pill or Red Pill?

So I'm trying to legitimize this pig by moving over to a URL, which I've now procured.  Wait until you get a load of the domain name, a blockbuster of epic proportions.  On the recommendation of a friend I'm currently scanning "Word Press Themes".  After scanning about 150 of these fuckers, I came to a bit of an epiphany.....I have no earthly fucking clue what Word Press is, and I sure as shit don't know what a theme is all about.  So I do what any razor-sharp Internet baron does, I Google-searched "What is a Word Press Theme".  Christ on a fucking bike.  If I'm not in the Matrix, then I don't know who the fuck is.  These explanatory web sites are popping off at the mouth about overlaying "graphical interfaces", "underlying unifying design", "customized template files", and "skinning my weblog".  Fuck. Right. Off.  Skinning my weblog.  Listen here nerd, I know a little bit about skinning my log, and it has nothing to do with the fucking Internet.  Well, I take that back, since about '96 it has had everything to do with the Internet.  But go fuck yourself just the same.  How deep does the rabbit hole have to go?  I feel like comets and asteroids and math equations are flying past my head at light speed and I'm all like:  "WHHHHOOOOOAAAAAAHHHHH   BRRRRAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!"  Can we slow shit down for just a hot second and get a nerd over to my living quarters, post haste?  I bought the goddamn domain name, and to my horror I find out I've got to go take C++ at the local community college and watch "Tron" like 20 times before I can proceed with using it.  Of all the kicks in the balls.  All I want is for some web'ish person to come over to my crib and build this shit, pro bono.  I know exactly how I want it to appear: Like Bitchin' and Badass banged out and had a kid, and that kid snorted about 6 lines of Fuck Yeah, then started grinding on chicks at a club.  And the chicks are vampires.  But not goth weirdo vampires, rather hot sexy vampires ala Kate Beckinsale in "Underworld".  Is that too much to ask goddamn it???  So if anyone is looking for me this week I'll be in my condo throwing a computer around like Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller in "Zoolander".  And to sweeten the deal I've got a new Mac that I haven't the foggiest how to use and have made zero effort to learn.  At least a sleep-depriving 5 month old baby doesn't also live in my condo.  Oh wait, shit.    

Friday, September 9, 2011

Public Service Announcement: Please Remember 9/11 Responsibly

I'll put this right up front instead of weaving it into the larger quilt of sarcasm and bile: I hate the yearly "Remember 9/11" manufactured bullshit.  It stinks and it hurts and it tries to make fools of us all.  There are two pieces of literature that I highly recommend everyone read, both of which play out in eerie exactitude each year at this time:

"Manufacturing Consent" by Noam Chomsky
"1984" by George Orwell

Both are relevant now in that they describe exactly what is behind all the "We will not forget" hullabaloo.  You know that you feel patronized to hell and back as the TV and the rest of the media world remind you to "Never Forget".  Why do you need to be reminded?  Who in their right fucking mind is going to forget that miserable day?  Go ask your great grandma what she was doing when she heard about Pearl Harbor.  Ask one of your parents if they remember the day Kennedy was shot.  Ask me or anyone else 32 or older if they can recall the Challenger explosion.  We're not going to forget, and they fucking well know that.  They don't care if you forget or not.  What they do care about is that they cram 10 megatons of American flags and crying fire fighters' children up your ass so you feel guilty and tune into some dramatized retelling of the day.  And this is exactly what Orwell and Chomsky are talking about.  In "1984", the citizens of Oceania must participate daily in the "Two Minute Hate", as images of their enemies attacking Oceania with heroic Oceanian citizens defending it are flashed across a screen.  They are whipped into a froth of hate at their enemies and love for their leader, "Big Brother".  This is also the focus of "Manufacturing Consent".  Chomsky brilliantly proves beyond a reasonable doubt how the government of a nation can use the media to "manufacture" the "consent" they need to let the military-industrial complex run amok and test out all its new shit on some undeserving group of brown people, e.g. "Shock and Awe".  When Cheney, Rummy and the gang were running this playbook to perfection 9 years ago, Chomsky spoke up and said, "Wait, why the fuck are we going to turn Iraq into a glass parking lot of sectarian violence?  What they fuck did they have to do with any of this?"  He didn't use those words exactly.  In fact Chomsky is one of the world's preeminent linguistics scholars and as such, his writings are difficult to read, to say the least.  I don't know if it is because Chomsky is so impressed with his own intelligence that he'd prefer his books are inaccessible to most, he doesn't know any other way to write, or he just loves the smell of his own farts.  Probably a combination of all of the above.  But he is telling the brutal truth, regardless if people want to accept it or not.  You watch enough images of smoldering NYC buildings, flashed images of Muhammed Atta, crying policemen, Osama bin Laden in front of a bookcase holding a Kalashnikov, the American flag, and guess what?  Pretty soon you're going to say, "Well Earl, probably bout time we go kick some feckin' A-Rabb ass!"  Chomsky was run out of town on a fucking rail by the "These Colors Don't Run" crowd sent to do their bidding by Cheney and Rummy, who are brilliantly evil and knew Chomsky was dead balls correct.

And this is exactly how the government can keep you sorta/kinda on board with the war in Iraq, the war in Afghanistan, whatever the fuck they are claiming the oil heist in Libya is all about, etc, etc.  "What, you want to leave Afghanistan before the 'job is done'?  Ummmm, are you forgetting 9/11 comrade?  Are you with the terrorists?  Why don't you step away from the security line and come into this office.  Have you ever been to Guantanamo Bay?"  I'm not some commie red fucking bum who "Hates Merika" and "Don't support the troops", and I'm certainly not some pathetic bleeding heart liberal.  I love America, at least what it philosophically stands for.  And not the philosophy of enslaving blacks and only allowing wealthy, white, land-owning males to vote.  But the America of Neil Diamond.  The America of the Grateful Dead's "American Beauty".  The America of butt-fucking Adolf Hitler, not because we're gay, but because fuck him (and if they'd just listened to General Patton and not let the Reds win the race to Berlin, shit would've been a lot cooler).  The America of little league baseball, high school football, unprotected sex with the homecoming queen in her dad's Buick, of Kansas and it's infinite fields of utter fucking boredom.  The America of Teddy M.F. Ballgame Williams.  The America of bible belt hillbillies who love God and hate gays and blacks.  The America of Texas's right to be a state full of giant assholes.  The America of Arnold Schwarzenegger going from poor, steroid-injecting womanizer to rich, womanizing governor of California.  You need to ask yourself during the "Never Forget" marathon this weekend: What has been done in our name as a result of this despicable act?  If the goal of attacking Afghanistan was to hunt down Osama bin Laden and his minions, and he is now murdered and his minions largely murdered or in a Turkish prison having their ball sack gnawed on by rats, then why exactly are we still in Afghanistan with a helicopter full of young handsome Navy Seals being killed?  Read the goddamn history books.  The French thought they could tame Vietnam.  How'd that work out?  The Soviets thought they could tame Afghanistan.  How'd that work out? 

I'm not saying don't remember.  The families and friends of this tragedy have endured hardship that I personally cannot fathom.  I wish them the best that is possible in life going forward.  I will remember that day vividly, probably until I die, or at least until I'm shitting my pants in an assisted living facility and talking to a house plant about the pretty birds outside.  I will remember that scores of first responders whipped out their gigantic brass balls and went sprinting into fires to try and save people's lives.  I will remember spending that day in Joe's American Bar on Newbury Street in Boston because we were sent home from work and the public transit shut down for about 10 hours.  I will remember that people's lives were irreversibly set on a course of grief and misery.  And I bet if you asked any one of the thousands who died, or the tens of thousands whose lives are affected as a result, how they wished to be remembered or supported, very few of them would respond: "We want you to let the pentagon test out previously non-combat tested weapons of mass destruction out on two countries which had nothing to do with the 9/11 attacks.  We want you to obliterate entire wedding parties of local peasants with accidental drone bombings.  We want you to drag our military women and men across the globe to the middle of a fucking desert and a high mountain desert and have them dodge improvised explosive devices until they lose their shit and commit suicide.  We want you to devote entire days every year to plastering the television with American flags and pictures of our children crying at Ground Zero so the media execs can make millions off of our heroism and our collective grief.  But more than anything, we want yellow ribbons.  Lots and lots of yellow ribbons."

Don't let the money-grubbing assholes in the media world win this weekend.  Please don't let that happen.  Don't let yourself get whipped into a Toby Keith soundtracked patriotic froth this weekend that the pentagon lobbyists can use to convince the government to prolong a meaningless, expensive and destructive war of occupation.  Don't sit inside watching the stars and stripes fly across images of smoldering steel until you have a seizure.  Do what the dead and grieving would want you to do in order to honor their memory: Go live your lives and live them well.  I understand what you are doing, but unfortunately a Facebook profile status of "America Will Never Forget 9/11" isn't going to alter history, nor will it set us on a positive path in the future.  Play with your kids outside.  Go to the beach.  Get hammered watching NFL football.  Smoke meth in a trailer next to a cow pasture.  Just don't get tricked into sitting about and feeling sorry for a bunch of people who would never want others sitting around and feeling sorry for them.  That isn't very American.   

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Hey Fighting Irish, Great Effort

The Notre Dame downward spiral is still alive and thriving.  I don't know when the entire program is going to be shooting heroin in the basement of a foreclosed and abandoned McMansion with a snuff porn playing on a stolen television set and alley cats eating the open needle sores on the passed-out people's arms while one of the junkie cheerleaders is shaking an OD'ing player screaming "You promised me the American dream goddamn you!", but the day cannot be far away.  It has gotten to the point where I no longer dislike Notre Dame football.  I feel really bad for them and wish that they maybe could win $20 on a scratch-off lotto ticket or find a dollar bill on the ground or something.  It is like watching "Requiem For A Dream" at this point.  I'm cringing, awaiting the inevitable "ass-to-ass!" scene.  I barely even remember when Notre Dame was still respectable.  Was Clinton president then, or was it still Bush I?  Regardless, I was in middle school at the time.  And now....they are losing at home to South Fucking Florida in their season opener.  Who can you schedule for a sure win at this point?  Not the service academies.  Maybe the Fighting Irish should schedule some Ivy League schools.  What seemed to help matters was Brian Kelly turning into a complete and total panic merchant on the sideline.  But does it really matter anyway?  The fans need to be entertained by something, so maybe Kelly's sideline theatrics are the best they can hope for on the way to another 6-6 season.  Things aren't going to get any better this week.  I am by no means queueing up with all the other reactionaries to chug Brady Hoke's cock on the Michigan sideline with his sub-.500 career coaching record of 47-50, based solely on his handling of mighty Western Michigan in the home opener last week and the fact that he is a "Michigan Man".  That being said, Notre Dame is walking into the first night game in the long history of The Big House.  The fans are going to have an entire day of getting tuned up at wine and cheese parties and sniffing their own farts, so needless to say the stadium will be a total snake pit come 20:00 EST.  Good luck fish-eaters.  I think the best chance for Notre Dame to return to respectability would be for the Big 10 to absorb Toledo, thus opening up a spot in the MAC for Notre Dame. 

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Get Stabbed with a Meat-Sword at The Butcher & Larder

Yeah, take it.  You swallow that meat.  Swallow all of it.  Yeah, you know you love it......wait, what are we talking about again?  Oh yeah, somewhat new Chicago butcher shop (actually I haven't the fucking foggiest whether or not this place is new, but it is new to me, and I am the only person in the world who counts, so it is fucking well new) the Butcher & Larder.  Located on Milwaukee in the Noble Square neighborhood (and I hope people have noticed just how fucking en fuego I am since I learned how to link shit on this blog), it is not a conspicuous store front.  If you decide to check it out, go south on Milwaukee from Division, and it is a little before Augusta on the west side of Milwaukee.  Once there, prepare yourself for a steaming hot meat injection.  Not like the one you got on spring break that one year in Cancun when you don't remember anything after that guy Dave dropped an "aspirin, you know, for the hangover" in your margarita and you woke up 8 hours later on an abandoned beach naked and sticky...but kind of like that.  For years I frequented a venerable old butcher shop in Lincoln Park.  It is still a great store with fun employees and I hate to forsake them.  But forsake them I have.  In a meat waving contest, they just don't measure up.  Everyone needs to question at some point: What quality of meat are you putting into yourself?  If your answer is "I don't care", then I guess you aren't health conscious, taste sensitive, and more than likely your dad never showed you any affection.  Quite possibly your uncle Chester may have had some boundary issues.  But anyhoo, the Butcher & Larder is not pimping average, suspect meat.  You don't need a condom for their meat.  B&L is butchering animals from producers that let livestock dance and twirl around the farm eating grass, like a shrooming hippy at a Phish concert.  They don't buy animals from livestock prisons where the inmates are kept in squalid little cells festering in their own shit and fed hormones all day. 

My first trip to B&L was late in the afternoon on a Saturday, and by the time I arrived they were all fucked I mean all sold out of most everything.  I picked up the last of the filet for the wife, then headed to my old standby shop for my own cut.  Per usual, I got a big fuck-you bone-in ribeye.  Grilled them up and guess what?  My ribeye tasted like a dog shit brownie compared to that filet.  It wasn't that my steak was was that B&L's was that good.  For all those assholes out there who claim there is no difference between organic food and food that was stepped on by 5 different dealers between Colombia and you, just give B&L a try.  Their ground chuck is hands-down the best I've ever eaten.  Yes, it is $6 per pound which is more than you'll pay for gray, dodgy-assed meat lurking deep in the bowels of the butcher counter at Jewel or Dominick's, threatening to cut people with a blade if they get too close.  And if you want to buy that shit and then spend 20 minutes making it edible with various kitchen minerals and compounds like a fucking chemist, then be my guest.  But if you want to form the patties, throw them on the grill as is, and then eat the best goddamned burger of your life, fork over the extra $2.00 and quit being such a cheap fuck your whole life.  Eat it slow, enjoy every swallow.  Make it sexy.  Beyond the aforementioned meat selections, they've got shit you haven't even heard of.  Goat legs, sausages you can't pronounce, pates, lunch offerings, I think you can even get baboon meat if you first prove you aren't wearing a wire.    

So if you want to get pounded by some major league stud meat, then give the Butcher & Larder a try.  You will not be disappointed.  Tell 'em Zach sent you.  They'll have not one fucking clue who Zach is, but at least it will make things awkward for a hot second before you buy your meat.       

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Dear Obama: What the World Needs Now is a GANGSTER

Barack, this is fucking serious.  This is 4th and 19, down 6, with 37 seconds to go in the Super Bowl.  You have before you a unique moment in world history, and you are the quarterback of the best team.  This is your chance to be Churchill laying on top of buildings in London screaming "Fuck you!" at the Waffen S.S. as they rained bombs on the capital, or FDR telling everyone to get fucked while he handled bidness.  The United States just had it's credit rating dropped because everyone with half a dick knows we're all but fucked.  Europe is at the precipice of monumental financial disaster which will result in them fracturing back into the nationalistic aggression which brought us Napoleon, Bismarck, WWI and WWII.  There is a goddamned mob running amok in London for Christ's sake.  We're in the middle of two useless tit wars that are fucking killing us financially and bankrupting us morally.  And the straw that broke the camel's back....a fucking hurricane just waltzed into New York Fucking City and shut down the subway system.  20 years ago a hurricane tries to invade New York City, it probably gets stabbed, a gang-beating minimum.  The world hungers for Mad Max.  America thirsts for Braveheart (Gibson hates playing heroes, doesn't he?).  And who are you giving them?  Fucking Carlton Banks, thats who.  Please, for the love of Crom, snap out of your goddamned "Change" coma and go straight gangstah on all these mutherfuckers right now!!!  Not next month, not after the election, but tomorrow.  You are home from vacation and it is time to put heads to bed.  These political parties, which are barely discernible from one another at this point, are the biggest bullshit in China dude.  Useless fucks, all of them.  No interest in getting anything done, at all.  Nothing but bitching, whining, and blaming each other for the problems they are paid to solve.  If you listen Obama, and listen right now, there is still time to act.  This is what you can, and most certainly should, do:

Drop your pussy-assed Carlton Banks "let's compromise" bullshit that is designed only to get you reelected.  Everyone sees through the ruse, so just let it go.  Drop the suit and tie, and show up to Capitol Hill tomorrow in a Sean Jean sweatceudo and a bandana with a sideways, straight-billed Raiders hat over it, sporting Air Force Ones.  Channel your inner O-Dog from "Menace II Society".  Walk into that Capitol Building with an an entourage blaring the most aggressive Tupac you can find from a boom box, with a fucking gangster lean and yell, "Break yo self bitches, O-Bomb bout to preach!"  Walk up to John Boehner, pull out a gat, and shoot him directly in the orange fucking head.  As an Ohioan, I am deeply embarrassed by this pussy.  He tans, he cries, he is a moron.  No one will lament his necessary death.  I would then recite Clint Eastwood's speech from the brothel at the end of Unforgiven.  Tell everyone in the building that if they don't want to die, to turn around and leave out the back door.  Tell them they are all gonna pay for what they done to Ned.  Turn around and find John Kerry.  Grab him by the collar and pistol-whip him right in the horse face.  Don't even offer an explanation.  Tell him if the next words out of his mouth are not "Whatever you say O-Bomb", he's getting capped.  A pistol-whipping can only improve that mug.  After this business is completed, I'd call Nancy Pelosi out onto center stage.  Make it seem like you are going to say something nice about her.  Then pull out a bottle of Dom, shake it up and start spraying it all over her face.  Shoot the floor around her feet and scream "Dance for us bitch!".  The first person who says something other than "Yessir!", walk up to them and stick the gun in their mouth.  Just start yelling "What the fuck you say bout my momma?!"  Now you've got everyone's attention.  You've left your Kansas behind my friend.  You've shed Carlton Banks and become Denzel Washington in "Man on Fire".  Killing for sport.  Now that you are calling the shots, you've got to make the hard decisions that none of these pussies and sleazebags are willing to make because it might get them unelected.  This is what G-Dubbyah did.  He just did whatever the fuck he wanted.  Unfortunately every decision he made was absolutely terrible and detrimental to the future of the nation and the world.  You've got to reverse all that shit.  Bring everyone home from Iraq and Afghanistan.  Put them to work rebuilding at home.  Trust me, plenty of shit is broken or about to break.  They are going to call you a socialist or say you are acting like a king.  But do you know who else they said that about?  Franklin Delanor Fucking Ballgame Roosevelt, that's who.  Do you think FDR cared?  He was too busy getting more ass than a fucking toilet seat, from a wheel chair mind you.  When times are darkest you do not need your leaders sitting around arguing over who fucked whose boyfriend back in '93 or who stiffed who for a $1,700 lap dance tab at The Titanium Titty in Tampa during the Young Democrats Convention in '01.  They need a warrior, a Kenyan Masai tribesman if you will, to start kicking ass and taking some fucking names.  Who gives a shit if the Tea Party calls you a socialist?  80% of them are racist, and I doubt 20% of them could correctly answer "What is socialism?" on a multiple choice exam, even if the other 3 choices are A) Ocean B) Tree and C) Car.  Just to be safe, I'd have them all rounded up and imprisoned in a labor camp in Nevada somewhere.  The GOP and the Democrats may be useless, but this rag tag army of unemployed, racist, xenophobic, jingoist, uninformed, tax-evading morons are NOT the answer.  I'd gladly trade any 10 of these assholes "guarding" the border for just 1 hardworking Mexican that wants to cross it.

What do you need Obama to make you realize where we are and what is needed?  Opportunity to go down as one of the all time greats is bending over in front of you, with it's skirt hiked up and undies on the floor.  Just. Stick. It. In. Brah.  Crom help us all if you keep pussy-footing around and we end up with some Bachmann'esque dipshit taking over in '13.  Where is the guy who voted against invading Iraq a decade ago?  Fucking find him, and find him fast. 

Monday, August 29, 2011

We're Taking this Pig Global

That's right bitches, What Sucks Now is headed over to the World Wide Web (located in a bunker somewhere on Al Gore's property) in the very near future.  Only problem, some dick hole already owns  And yes I could buy it.  However, it appears it is some Internet squatter scumbag, and honestly I don't want to pay such slime, thus vindicating what they do, even if it is only $100.  So this presents a conundrum.  To be honest, I was never thrilled with the title "What Sucks Now".  It was hastily named because I was creating the blog, and it said "What is the title?".  Well asshole, I hadn't gotten that far.  And on that day, I was so pissed off about that stupid publicity whore Abby Sunderland and her scum family, that I just said "God, she sucks!" and bada bing, bada boom, there's your name.  And for all you Internet historians out there, "Abby Sunderland Sucks" is Blog 1 in the annals of WSN.  So I'm considering a total overhaul here.  That is where readership comes into play.  Anyone with a rad idea, use the little Comment button and make a suggestion.  And when I start making $5.00 per year off of this site, I'll give you $0.00 of it.  Deal?  Done.  Obviously there have to be a few guidelines:

It can't be complicated.  So while is both creative and fucking hilarious, it is a bit too much work. 

Obviously I don't have a clean mouth.  But it has to be clean(ish).  People don't want showing up in the Google search history on their company's computer.  Totally lame, but I guess that is business for you. 

Anybody that responds with anything with the word "midget" in it is banned for life.  Persona non gratis.  You are an Un-Person, ala Lenin when he found out Trotsky had betrayed him. 

Unfortunately is already taken.  Yes, I checked.  And whoever scooped that one up....savvy move kemosabe. 

My first name is in play.  My last name is not.  I don't want any respectable members of my family to be sullied by such nonsense.  I don't need my little brother to be 4/5 of the way through the interview process only to have the employer ask "Are you related to this asshole?"

I've considered a Conan the Barbarian related theme, such as, or  And I think those are viable.  My only concern is that the site become heavily trafficked by comic book nerds who quickly click away the first time there is a reference to sex or drinking a beer.