Monday, January 31, 2011

Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God! There is Going to be a Big Snowstorm in Chicago Tomorrow. Oh My God what the Fuck do we do!?!?!?

I personally am probably going to douse myself with lighter fluid, set myself on fire, and throw myself from our balcony. I am sure as shit not going to sit around and wait for 20 inches of snow to hit and try to survive that calamity. What if all the snow catches on fire and the whole city burns to the ground as everyone writhes in skin-melting pain? What if the snow crushes everyone to death under it's own weight? What if all the stores run out of provisions and we have to survive for 8 hours on the food that is already in our homes? I'm not eating the canned fucking beans! Who the fuck could survive on that? What if the snows starts stabbing people to death? Did you fucking think of that? Did you? Listen, a large snowfall total is nothing to sit around and wait for with your thumb up your ass and your mouth agape like some kind of obese West Virginian. An impending snowstorm is time to get your fucking ass to the grocery store and start fighting over provisions that you've never used before in your life, with little old women who are convinced that FDR is going to have to send a platoon of Public Works Administration workers to your house in May when the snow melts to retrieve all the dead bodies. It is time. To fucking. Panic. All the food you usually eat day-in, day-out, and is currently residing in your fridge and pantry.....that shit ain't gonna fly if there is more than a foot of snow on the ground. You simply cannot eat a chicken breast with rice pilaf and broccoli during inclimate winter weather. You need milk, you need flour, you need bread, and you better fucking believe you need eggs. Lots of eggs. If necessary elbow someone in the head if they attempt to take the last of the eggs. While waiting for the bus this morning next to Dominick's, I saw some of the local crack head alcoholics (that is what we call a "dual threat") stocking up on extra 22oz pounders of Steel Reserve and cigarettes. And I don't blame them. You cannot sit around your snowed-in Chicago Housing Authority hovel, sobering up, waiting for the city to pay Mexicans to shovel a path over to Robbie the Rock-Dealer's house. You've got to maintain a buzz somehow. Those are the planners and the survivors. I don't have the fortitude for that. You are going to find me, when all this snow melts, in the corner of my condo rocking back and forth crying in a pool of my own excrement.

Friday, January 28, 2011

Nice Orange Face Asshole

Its been 14 degrees and cloudy for the past 3 months in Chicago, and your fucking face is orange. Were you on vacation? Oh really, you were? It must have been at a beach resort on the planet Alderon, in the Dagoba System. Because here, on Earth, our largest star (we call it the sun) is only capable of turning your skin two colors: brown or red. It doesn't have an orange setting.

What is it you think is appealing to others--and I presume you are trying to appeal to the opposite sex--about having unnaturally orange skin? Are you trying to score some Oompa Loompa cock/pussy? If you are that is totally cool. You just may consider moving to Loompaland, because I haven't seen any of those creepy little fuckers running around here lately. Everyone gets it; you're Caucasian. They know how it works. If you are outdoors frequently in months where the sun's orbit is closest the earth, and for our region this is May-September, your skin can become a tan color. When the sun's orbit is far from our earth, your skin is its normal hue: white. No one is surprised by white skin in January. Least of all other white people. In contrast, everyone is surprised by orange skin: white people, black people, Asian people, Mexicans, everyone. When your skin is chemical orange, all peoples come together and agree you look like an assclown of the highest order.

So please, do everyone a favor, yourself included: If you have so little to offer that you are considering turning your skin fake-tan orange....just kill yourself. That way everyone wins.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

George Clooney Fucked Your Sister While You Read this Headline

He banged her and told her to get the fuck out of his hotel room before you even read the word "Headline". Deal with it. If you're extra-lucky, George Clooney might bang you some day. He doesn't want to hear how she is an aspiring actress, he doesn't want to know about how she's been sliding out of her seat over him ever since E.R., and he sure as fucking shit isn't going to become her Facebook friend. All he wants to do is hit it, forget it, and go on with his sexy-assed day. If your sister is smart, she'll pick up her clothes (and don't even bother searching for the undies, Clooney melted those right off your ass with his steely gaze), get the fuck out of Clooney's life, and not shower for 2 weeks so that she can show-off her Clooney stink for a while.
We watched The American recently, and this under-handed son-of-a-bitch is so goddamned handsome it just ain't fair. If I walked in on my wife banging George Clooney, I don't know what I would do. Probably just give respect where respect is due, and leave them to it. Then go mow my lawn, so that it looks nice when George leaves.

Davis Love III New Ryder Cup Captain MUTHERFUCKERS!!!

Got the opening of AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" turned up to 11 in my dome right now and I ain't turning down the dial until the UnitedfuckingStates of Fuck You wins the Ryder Cup. You see that pants tent I'm pitchin'? Been there since I saw the glorious announcement that my main shit stain D-Love Triple accepted the captain post for the U.S. Ryder Cup team. Mark my words: You haven't seen a North Carolinian kick this much ass since Andrew Jackson torched Seminole villages to the fucking ground in Florida 1817. That is what DL3 is about to unleash on those effete Europeans. This is just like W.T. Sherman heading into Atlanta. Only instead of hardened Union soldiers bent on destruction, this is out-of-shape golf pussies bent on winning a trophy only dorks care about. I've already purchased an entire golf-watching ensemble: pleated Nike golf pants; polo shirt; United States windbreaker; Titleist visor; Foot Joy golf spikes. And you better fucking bet I'll be polishing those spikes every single day between now and when I'm firmly planted on the margins of a fairway via my spikes at the Ryder Cup screaming "You Da Man!!!" as DL3 studies the direction of grass growth. THUNDER...NA-NA-NA, NA-NA, NA-NA!

What do you Think People's Crotch Smelled Like 700 Years Ago?

Being that I'm an amateur history buff I feel quite strongly that this topic has been grossly under-reported. Being that personal groin hygiene and maintenance is largely a phenomenon of the past 2 decades, I have to imagine the crotch of 1311 was a house of horrors. If you were a young lass of questionable virtue who decided to go down on the knob of a local boy, who had presumably been out carrying rocks to and fro and trying to avoid the plague all day, how would you stifle the stench of onion pube long enough to finish your task? You must recall there was no running water indoors, no morning shower, and to fill a copper tub with fire-heated water being such a Herculean task that it was done but a couple times a year. There were no beard trimming clippers either, so the pube jungle must have been truly breathtaking. And imagine, if you will, you are a randy young country squire attending the Autumn Harvest Lute Dance and get very friendly with a fair maiden on the dance hay during a particularly riveting rendition of "Please Forest Goblins, Don't Steal and Feast on my Baby". You decide to retire to the high weeds for some unprotected sex, but before you set to business you realize you've "got to lick it, before you stick it". Unbeknownst to you our fair maiden has not retired to the babbling brook for a wash-up in more than a fortnight, in addition to a rather yeasty parade through Tuna Town. As you remove the course woolen undergarment of your quarry you are punched directly in the nose by the iron fist of unkempt snatch. What do you do? There is no manual on how to proceed if the wizard's sleeve is full of Limburger cheese.

I heard Gore Vidal was planning to script a tome on this very subject, but he's too old. It is history's great loss that he is unable to do so. We must all be thankful that we live in the golden age of crotch upkeep.

Jay Cutler is a Fucking Warrior

He sat out the second half of the Bears NFC Championship game with a sprained MCL. What a modern day Hector of Troy. It is a little known fact, but Hannibal of Carthage actually sat out the Battle of Zama with elbow tendinitis. Now I know the Rose Bowl and the NFC Championship aren't completely equal, but Terrele Pryor of Ohio State played the 2010 Rose Bowl with a torn knee ligament. And he didn't get injured during the game, rather he came into the game with the injury. He won the game and was the MVP, and he is a running quarterback. I guess he just really wanted to play and win. I personally sprained my MCL this past Thursday during a ski trip to Utah. It was the first day of the trip and I really wanted to ski; I was already all the way out there and all. So I skied the next 3 days on the sprained knee. It kind of hurt, both when I skied and still a little when I walk. I didn't ski my all-time best, but I did okay. It still hurts some, but I'm glad I skied. Who knows, I may never make it back to Snowbird. I'm sure Jay Cutler will be back to plenty of NFC Title games, so no biggie. Just ask Dan Marino.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Oh No! The "Man With The Golden Voice" was Arrested and is Going to Rehab!?!?!?

I never saw it coming! I've never been surer of anything in my life than I was sure that Ted Williams would fly straight and only do good with his recent windfall. I mean, when you take a lifelong substance abuser and suddenly hand him a shitload of cash, you expect him to use it wisely. That is the social contract you enter into. If you can't trust a guy in a surplus camouflage jacket living in a tent with another dude on the side of the road in a metropolitan area, with wild hair and summer-teeth, then who the fuck can you trust? When you are homeless, an alcoholic, a drug addict, have abandoned your family, and are giving blow jobs to closet homosexuals in Livingston Park for money to feed the gorilla on your back, you learn certain skills such as financial planning, moderation and parenting. So when you go from that, straight to $100 bills in your pocket with no in-between period, you should know what the fuck to do with it. So come on Ted Williams, you've let a lot of barely literate christian Americans down.

***Over/Under on when Ted Williams is either dead or in prison: St. Patrick's Day, 2011

Monday, January 10, 2011

Its High Time we Impose a Ceiling on Pant Sizes

The G8 nations need to make this priority #1 in the next gathering. They can get to boozy dinners and whoremongering after a decisive vote is cast in this all-too-important issue which could ultimately lead to the demise of planet earth. I don't know who makes pants which would come close to fitting pigs such as this, but it is time we impose some ethical guidelines on them. We simply cannot be exposed to such human carnage as in the example to the left. I was in line buying a banana for breakfast on Friday morning, getting money out of my wallet at the checkout counter, and as my gaze raised in a trajectory from pocket to register there encountered my sightline a vision most ghastly. A woman (or sow, depending on the setting) was buying her "breakfast" at the same location. Her legs looked like someone was trying smuggle in 100 pounds of raw dough in two 20 pound sacks. I don't know by what miracle of modern Chinese fabric-making the fat was held at bay by the fiber, but a mere touch of the pant at any spot with a pin knife would have resulted in an explosion of pillowy flesh sure to have concussed the knife-wielder instantly upon contact. The only comparison I could make was walking into an Italian deli in Cleveland's Little Italy when I was younger and seeing the driying cheeses and meats hanging from the ceiling in cloth sacks. That is precisely what it looked like. The brutal assault on my eyes was by no means concluded. The two aforementioned bufala mozarella sacks gave way to an ass which simultaneously defied Darwin, Einstein and God. I'll refer to it reverently as "The Continental Shelf". You could have literally taken a cafeteria tray full of food and a pint of beer and set both comfortably and safely on the "top ass", taking your repast at leisure with no fear of spillage, lest Oprah say something funny to our heroine and cause a ripple of pig flesh sure to send your meal into outer space. If you laid her on her stomach (and mind you, we'd need two well-outfitted Land Rovers with sharpshooters and rhino-tranquilizers at the ready to accomplish this) and tried to measure the height of her ass from floor to its lofty apex, we'd need not a ruler nor yardstick, but rather a small ladder and tape measure. I do not know who would create pants with such unearthly demensions, but damn that company to hell and back. It was no shock to any unfortunates present what she sought for sustenance: A ham-product, egg and cheese croissaint; a danish so large as to prevent closure of the plastic container which sought to control it; and the final insult--a bottle of water. As if causing all who view you to want to race for the nearest log fire and use the reddest of burning embers to smote their eyes from their skull weren't enough, you have to fucking clog landfills as well in a piss-poor attempt at "eating light". Back with you beast! Back to Tanzania and the Serengeti plain to wrestle with your equals the hippo, the croc and the wildebeest for prime sunning upon an exposed rain pool rock! Let not us, the innocent tax payer, be burdened with the cost of sawing off your diabetic limbs. Let the noble croc relieve you of your foul-smelling foot when blood ceases to make its way to that formerly useful appendage. But alas the weak-willed take no responsibility for their own gluttony. Therefore I look to the pant-maker to end this travesty. Force these beasts into REI to buy tents to cover themselves and thus disallowed in respectable establishments.
As she wallowed off to her cubicle to enjoy her 2,500 calorie breakfast I was on the floor dying rapidly like Colonel Kurtz, able only to utter the phrase, "The horror! The horror!".

In Your Face America!

The rest of America can swing from Chicago's ample nuts. Highest gas prices in the country, bitches! $3.35 a gallon to a national average of $3.08. Salt Lake City is chock full of Mormon pussies who only pay $2.73, the lowest of any U.S. metropolitan area. So you fucking creeps can plan some extra trips to the Tabernacle. Chicago is dominating the United States in all sorts of desirable categories such as: Most school shootings; Most gang violence; Most gun crimes; Shittiest weather; Most corrupt political system; And now highest gas prices. Texas still has the fattest people on lockdown, but if Chicago gets one more goddamned pork-centric restaurant, we might be coming for Texas's ass too. I'm going to fill up my SUV right now, before the prices have a chance to fall.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Update: George Ryan Allowed to Visit Dying Wife for a Couple of Hours

That is fucking bullshit. I didn't authorize any of my tax money to transport that dickhole to the hospital and back. Fuck him. And the judge who authorized it, you're a fucking pussy.

Former Illinois Governor George Ryan may not get to See his Wife Die

Boo-fucking-hoo. Do you know, George, who gets to see their wives die? People who don't commit a shitload of fucking crimes, that's who. When you are elected to office by the citizens of the state, and then you wait until those citizens aren't looking and stick your dick in their ass....guess what fuck-o? You don't get to be at your wife's bedside as she expires. You get to be in an orange jump suit sitting at a metal table in a cafeteria with lots of neon lighting as a guard walks up to you and tells you that your wife died, and then you get to finish your "Grade D But Still Edible" salisbury steak and mashed peas. So do us all a favor and tell your fat dork son to quit displaying his bullshit moral indignation for the cameras and cry yourself to sleep on your shitty mattress. If you wanted to be amongst loved ones in times of family crisis, then maybe you shouldn't have treated the State of Illinois as your personal bank account. No one gives one fuck about you anymore. There is only one guy in Illinois allowed to lie, cheat and steal with his cronies to line his own coffers, and that man's name is Richard M. Daley. So if your name isn't Richard M. Daley, go eat a bag of dicks.

Everything's Cool in Haiti Now, Right?

I know they got crushed by an earthquake last year. Depressing business, that. But I texted *help* to the number provided, twice. So they got $20 from me. Once people stopped dying rapidly, the media quit talking about it. So naturally I'm assuming everything is cool. Haiti must be right back on track: Commerce rocking and economic sustainability up the ass. That's how Haiti rolls.

Monday, January 3, 2011

Hey, Guess Who I Saw at the Gym this Morning?

Thats right, one fat fucking asshole after another. The New Year's Resolution shitheel crowd is officially upon us at the gym. I say it every year: If you rely upon a random day in the Roman calendar cycle to improve yourself, you've already failed. Please do everyone a favor and take your ample girth and lack of self-control back home and modify your New Year's resolution to something that better synchs with your lack of will, like becoming the best Grand Theft Auto player in Chicago. The gym management loves you. You show up, pay for a year's membership, put 4.5 weeks worth of wear and tear on the equipment, and then never show up again. You might be management's wet dream, but you're everyone else's worst nightmare.