Friday, March 25, 2011

If Ohio State Loses Tonight to that Slimy Fucking Snake Oil Salesman Back-Stabbing Scumbag John Calipari I'm Going to be so Fucking Pissed Off I Won't

Even be able to see straight. That is all. Have a nice day.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Turbo Boot

On my way home from the gym this morning I saw parked on Sedgwick Street, right next to the Danger Dominick's at Sedgwick and Division, a shiny new Porsche Cayenne Turbo. I admire the Porsche Cayenne. It is like an SUV, only you would never use it as an SUV. It is like a sportscar, but not really because it is large and boxy and would never drive like a sportscar. So you lose both ways. But where you win is the astronomical price you pay for it. You aren't taking it to drive the coastal highway and hug the curves and feel every pebble in the road. And you sure as shit aren't throwing a load of firewood in the back or hauling your boat with it. So what are you doing? If you want an SUV that performs like a utility vehicle, buy a Jeep. If you want a sportscar, buy a Porsche other than the Cayenne. If you want to shell out $106,000 for an auto that does neither well, then rock out with your small cock out, brah.

This particular Cayenne caught my eye for one reason; it had been "booted" by the city. Nothing screams "United Fucking States!" like a douchebag financing a $106,000 sport utility sports car for 8 years, when he can't afford to pay the parking tickets he gets on it. And before you say "He may have just forgotten to pay them", let me tell you this: You have to be dead or in jail for it to get to that point. They send you tickets for months upon months upon months, and mind have to have 3 separate delinquent parking tickets to get booted. He can't afford the $150. Live the dream brother! I hope he crushed so much pussy with that thing when he could still get the front driver-side wheel to roll forward. And I sincerely hope that the trollops who laid down for this smooth operator, enjoyed the 4 inches and 30 seconds they accepted into their body in exchange for being seen by like-minded vapid whores cruising around town in the Cayenne.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Dear Darfur: Find Some Oil or Shut the Fuck Up

In case you didn't notice, 6 people in Libya got a headache, 4 people turned their ankles, 3 people got diarrhea, 2 people pulled a hamstring, and 1 chick broke a newly manicured nail. And what happened? Tomahawk missiles up the ass of their oppressors.

What did you get in Darfur? Lets see, hundreds of thousands dead, famine, rape, torture, just a general ass kicking.....and I think you got some t-shirts, maybe a couple of shitty folk songs, a few righteous Hollywood assholes giving an overly dramatic Oscar acceptance speech not because they cared about you, but because they cared about everyone thinking they cared about something outside of their own giant head.

North Korea, Rwanda, Indonesia, Cambodia, Zimbabwe......cry us a fucking river. The USA and the "Allies", which always appear to consist of the USA, France for 36 hours of the operation, and England until their citizens start asking why they're killing people with their tax money, are the World Police. But not for you sorry sons of bitches. The World Police only police areas which sit on top of a shitload of Texas Tea, Liquid Gold, Oil that is. So until one of you goes out shootin' for some food and happens upon about 10,000,000 barrels of crude per month.....get fucked. Mugabe, Idi Amin, Janjaweed militia, Kim Jong Izzle can do whatever they want, all day baby. And unless you find some Tomahawks and a few F-14s out behind your dung huts, or better yet an assload of oil, you're hating life. So quit whining. We're too busy Tomahawking Tripoli back to a day when Hannibal would still recognize it, to listen to you.

We will bomb the McMutherfuck out of anyone starting trouble in a crude-pumping mecca. But if you start makin' trouble in your neighborhood, and your 'hood ain't oil-rich, eeehhhh, we'll say something really pointed about it at the next U.N. General Assembly. Right before we all head out to eat, drink and whore on the money our governments pledge to pretend to help people like you. It is what it is; lower your expectations to zero and fucking deal with it.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Why Aren't I Selling Magic Beans to Fools?

It is just so easy. I rail against Joel Osteen's "The Purpose Driven Life", and his horse teeth. But he is winning, while I lose every day. I need someone, a great friend or a trusted relative, to talk me into taking a dump on my principles and start selling snake oil. People fall all the fuck over themselves to pay their hard earned credit limits for someone to fill them full of false hope. They want Joel Osteen to put it in them slow and steady, then fast and with reckless abandon, and whisper filthy little tidbits in their ear like "Be everything you were meant to be", until they are moaning uncontrollably like the mouth-breathing idiots they truly are. I have precious few talents in this world, but there is one thing I excel at that most people are terrified of: Public speaking. I could be Joel Osteen, or Billy Graham, or Glenn Beck, or even Oprah (I obviously would have to become blacker and more lesbian). I just need to find a drug which suppresses my feelings of personal pride, honesty, and helps me to forget the social pact with my fellow man. Could I sleep at night, if my pillows were stuffed with the silky manes of unicorns and 100 harpists serenaded me to bed? My heart tells me: If you want to live a purpose-driven life, then go live a fucking purpose-driven life. If you want to be a decent person, go be a decent person right now. Don't waste your goddamn time reading a shitty book written by someone too sleazy to be a car salesman. Don't waste your time searching for the inspiration from Jeebus or "God" or whatever other mascot or talisman one of these bullshitters tells you to put your faith in. Just go and fucking do it. I do not--and probably will never--understand why people waste hours on the weekend listening to someone talk about living like Christ, when they could spend that same time on that same day volunteering to help the poor or improving their community. But hey, the church needs a fresh coat of paint and the pastor needs a new Caddy, and God sure as shit ain't painting and he doesn't own a car dealership. But I digress. Here is the big heart is not a capitalist. My heart is not a ruthless, calculating businessman. I've got the skill set to be a total scumbag, but my heart doesn't match. Even in my darkest days of frat guy shenanigans where I would not have let my own daughter in the same town with, let alone room, myself or any of my friends, would I have ever dreamed of cheating people. But now that I am staring 40 more years of work-a-day hell in the face I wonder if someone should stab my heart to death and let my brain start calling the shots? Is speed the answer? Should I become a speed addict? On speed all of your ideas are straight aces and morals become completely negotiable, if not wholly obsolete. Do you think Osteen stands up there in his mega-church giving sermons with those wide-eyes, ethereal and spooky grin, cascading sweat....NOT on speed? Give me a fucking break. He's in the green room doing blasters off the wings of angels and laughing all the way to the bank.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Dear Books-A-Million, Go Fuck Yourself

If I've told these assholes once, I've told them a thousand times: "I don't want to join the fucking savings club". I've been going to Books-A-Million, purely out of convenience as it's next to where I work, for 7 years now. Had I ponied up the buy-in of $20 the first time you asked me, given the hundreds of books I've bought for myself, as gifts, children's books for friends, etc, I would have saved over $14 million at this point. Guess what? I don't fucking care. I want to keep paying full price. It makes me feel like a big man. I'm about 500 books in at BAM, do you think I'm going to buy into the club and start saving NOW???? I'm way too smart for that, compadre. Today, as I paid full price for David Sedaris's "Me Talk Pretty One Day", which I've heard is lovely, after I refused for the 1 millionth time the discount club, I was additionally offered incredible discounts on subscriptions to some amazingly shitty magazines. One of the magazines she specifically pointed out to me was Ebony. Monica, know your fucking audience. How many white-as-snow 32 year old males are subscribing to Ebony? If it is more than 1, and if that 1 is not some wanna-be who is trying to nail black chicks at his "crib" in his parent's basement, I'll kiss your sweet ass. I've threatened, under my breath and aimed at no one in particular, to quit coming into your store a thousand times. I began doing this 5 years ago, and I do so 75% of the times I make a purchase. One of these days I'll make good on that threat and never come in again. And then you'll be sorry.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Isn't Molesting Kids Enough?

Listen, everyone is already creeped the fuck out by Catholics, what with the boy-touching and all. I know that I give a very wide berth to Catholic priests when I see them skeezing down the block, sniffing their fingers. One would think they would want to do anything humanly possible to mitigate their own creepiness factor in society. Then Ash Wednesday rolls around. Why o fucking why do they leave the mark of the beast on their foreheads all goddamn day long? I don't mind if you hold to ancient fatwa and get the mark. But how about this? Walk out of church, walk into McDonald's, go into the bathroom, and spend 5 seconds wiping that shit off your head? Am I out of the loop? Is being Catholic so fucking cool that you want to leave it on so as to make sure everyone you pass knows just how awesome you are? Maybe that was the case prior to the buggering of the altar boys, but it certainly isn't the case anymore.

Every year when this happens there is a moment where I have a panic attack and think that a zombie virus hit and I'm going to have the contents of my cranium devoured by the undead. And then I realize it is only the fish-eaters doing their yearly creep-out of all the normals. The lone exception came a few years back when a guy I worked with went out on Ash Wednesday and got utterly pissed. Came into work the next day hungover to the nines. Also forgot to shower, comb his hair, change clothes or remove the eerie Christ tribal tat from his forehead. Now that shit was amusing.

Does Fat Insulate?

I pondered this question as I sat, shoulders dislocated inward with knees locked tightly, on the bus this morning. I entered the bus today with a strong determination to find a seat. I eagerly sought refuge from my pathetic, miserable, workaday life in the pages of a fiction novel I've been reading. I like to disappear into such stories on the way to and fro my godforsaken workplace. As I scanned the bus right, left and back, I saw but two openings. Or what appeared to be openings. See, they were not normal seat openings, but rather appeared to be half-seats. I quickly surmised the reason; in the seat connected to each empty half-seat sat a heifer of epic proportions. I did not let this dissuade me from my mission to sit and read. I scanned the bulk and the face which sat atop it of each Jersey cow. It appeared the pig on the right might also stink. Why? I don't know, a hunch I guess. She appeared to be someone who stinks is all I can say. Resigning myself to my fate I seated myself next to pig port-side. I made several attempts at asserting myself physically to gain some small portion of my seat back, but to no avail. Each time I thrust an arm and elbow into the mound, the space created was slowly taken back as the pork flesh oozed to fill all voids. Not wanting to strain my shoulder in this losing fight I took out my book and huddled between Tons of Fun and the aisle. It was at this point I noticed the starboard swine was wearing a colossal down parka. I glanced right to see that the pig I went home with also wore a gargantuan down coat. It is 45 degrees today. Certainly not warm, but at least 25 degrees too warm for down parkas. Looking at these women one would think it were colder than a well digger's ass. Others were appropriately dressed, your protagonist included. Maybe I'm wrong, but I thought that fat insulated? I thought the morbidly obese were chronically overheated, foreheads beading sweat as they sat near motionless eating hot dogs at a football game on a 12 degree January day. Perhaps I'm wrong. What I do know is that the rest of us suffer when someone of this stature multiplies their own ample girth with unnecessary goose fill.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Afghanistan, You Just got your Ass Kicked!

In your face Afghanistan! U.S. forces acting within NATO fired from a gunship on March 1st, ultimately killing 9 Afghan children who were collecting firewood. Take that Afghanistan! Not so fucking cocky now, are you? You want to step to the United States? You get children slaughtered. Plain and simple. You don't even have to step to the United States to get your shit packed. Some crazy assholes that you don't pay attention to can take over your country, then provide a safe haven for some even crazier assholes who blow up some buildings in the United States, and you'll still get your ass kicked and your children blown up. U-G-L-Y, you ain't got no alibi, you ugly, you ugly! And we're doing this shit on your home court. How embaaaarrrrassing. Think of how many kids we'd blow up if this was in our gym.

I can't believe these people have the audacity to bitch about some measly hillbilly children to begin with. Look at all we've done for them. Since we showed up there have been some election-type thingys that have occurred. Even better, if the person the U.S. doesn't want to win, happens to win, one of these election-style happenings, we declare it illegal and have other electionesque events until the guy we want to win, wins. It is all in your best interest, trust us. Sometimes some kids get blown the fuck to hell. Instead of sitting around bitching about it, come up with a better game plan next time. If you don't like getting your ass kicked in front of your own fans, then play better. It isn't our job to stop ourselves from scoring, it is the defense's job to stop us.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

The Scout Chronicles: I Think Someone is Trying to Pull an "Inception" on my Ass

Although I can't be 100% sure, I think I'm being Inceptioned. And if the movie taught me anything, it's that you don't even know you are being Inceptioned. What I do know is that if I wake up at any moment and see Leonardo DiCaprio, I will bite that handsome son-of-a-bitch into next fucking week. The Scoutmeister is not going to be played for a fool. I haven't actually seen DiCaprio, but this is how I think it went down: I went to Higgins Animal Clinic, which is a pretty normal occurrence for me. My homegirl Dr. Barcyzk gave me a shot--and this is where I think it all went wrong. I am only speculating, but I think when I wasn't looking DiCaprio actually snuck into the room and administered the shot. Now I don't know what is real or what has been dreamscaped just to fuck with Scout. I've checked my treat cabinet about 100 times, and it appears that no one has stolen my sweet potato treats. That was my original suspicion. But now I'm starting to think that something much more sinister is at foot. While I was knocked out on goofballs administered during that shot, presumably, the perpetrators brought Ellen Page into my condo to do some of that mental architectural rebuilding of my surroundings. Speaking of Ellen Page, is she hot or not? Sometimes I want to hump the ever living shit out of her leg. Other times I'm like, "eh, I'd let her pet me". What the fuck is the deal with her? Anyway, she has been slowly dreamscaping my condo and now I don't know which way is up and which way is goodamned loose. Everything is helter-skelter and the Scoutmesiter is fit to be tied.

-I come home one day and the desk in the living room is gone. Apparently dreamscaped into the bedroom. "Well Scout, the desk is still in the house, what is the big deal?" you say. Let me tell you what the big deal is asshole--I used to lay under the desk in the living room and monitor Seward Park out the window as my duties of "Guardian Angel" dictate. Now I have to worry about shit falling on me from above. Kind of stressful, so cut me some fucking slack here.

-Way bigger problem: My goddamned day bed is gone. I used to spend half my day on this thing. Worse yet, it didn't get moved somewhere else. Fucker is gonezo, outright. Up and vanished like a fart in the wind. And in its stead is some weird thing I cannot identify. It is sort of like a bed, only smaller and enclosed on all sides. I mean there are spaces between all the slats so I can look in, but I lack the height or jumping ability to actually get over the railing and onto the mattress to see what it is all about. My only guess is that it is a bed designed for tiny humans, and it would seem the intention is that they not be allowed to escape. Doesn't look too fucking comfortable if you ask me.

-My favorite chair in the living room, also totally gone. I've looked for it everywhere; in the trash cans, in the bathtub, in the sink, under the sofa.....nowheres to be found. I spent another quarter of my day on that chair. And I also liked to look at myself in the mirror behind, which has moved to a new location to make room for....

-A useless set of fucking drawers now sits against the wall. The drawers are chocked full of tiny assed clothes. Ummmm, clothes don't fit mom and dad, and Scout doesn't wear clothes. Seems like a pretty sensible item they had Ellen dreamscape into my condo. Bravo assholes. The drawers are also full of these water bottle thingys, that according to the photos on the package, you drink milk from. Another huge waste of resources. Just wait until your mom and dad are finished with their cereal and lick the milk out of the bottom of the bowl. Works just fine for me, but if you want your fancy water bottles then go for it.

So the Scoutmeister has reacted to this Inception'ing the only way the Scoutmeister can: I started chewing the fuck out of things. Mostly I've focused on all these new books that have suddenly appeared as well. They have a central theme; all feature a cover picture of various minuscule humanoids, all of whom are bald and shirtless. Some are in pink underwear, others blue. Don't ask me, I just tell it like I see it.

One positive is that Ellen Page dreamscaped me a dog bed from Orvis. This thing is the cat's ass. The bed is memory foam. I'm pretty sure some cedar or poly fill would have sufficed, but if it's no sweat off Ellen's dream architecture nuts to create me a yuppie dog bed at 4 times the cost, I'm certainly not complaining.

I'm going to ride this storm out and see what happens. You never know, maybe I wake up and everything is back to normal soon. However, and I can't be any clearer about this, if shit doesn't quit getting weird-and fast-I reserve the right to bite every mutherfucker involved in this Inception, from DiCaprio right on down. Riddle me this Ellen page: If you are in a dream within a dream, and I take a dump right in the middle of the floor of that dream, can you dreamscape that off the floor?

P.S.--Don't tell mom but her belly has gotten HUGE the past few months.....what the fuck is up with that?

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

How did I Ever Wake Up in the Morning and Breathe Air Without an iPhone?

Now that I have the iPhone 4 on Verizon, I am very puzzled about the following: Prior to having this iPhone, how was I NOT in the fetal position in the corner of an abandoned warehouse fraught with tremors and pissing myself? How the fuck did I find my way around? Street signs? Positioning of the sun? Intuition? Relationship of current location to Lake Michigan? Give me a goddamned break. May have worked for Magellan, but that was the dark ages Jack. This is 2011 bitch. Time to quit thinking and start relying on instant gratification technology. How did I listen to music? Did I just carry a phone around AND an iPod? Christ on a fucking bicycle, what a waste of pocket space! Here I am carrying on archaic human interactions such as talking and making eye contact, like a fucking sucker. May as well take out a piece of paper, a pencil, and write a goddamn letter. No more my friends. My eyes are glued to my iPhone 24/7. You want to exchange some pleasantries huh? Fuck off, I'm Tweeting. I've almost been run over thrice just this past week as I wandered into traffic totally oblivious to the world outside my smart phone. It is so awesome! It has this great stay-in-shape application I downloaded. So instead of working out and eating whole food, I can instead spend all of that time plugging random foods into the app and watching it spit out meaningless information about calories. Who wants to run along the lake when you can just do that? Idiots and assholes, that's who. This whole ADD phenomenon? Solved--Just give people with ADD iPhones; it is much cheaper than recognizing and working to solve the problem. With all the time I'm saving by consolidating my life on iPhone, I'm going to have a shitload of time that I can spend fucking around with my iPhone. And tell grandma I'm sorry. I have been too busy on my iPhone to be able to talk on the phone.

An Ode to a Bus Fart

O Bus Fart
You care not for the recycled nature of public transit air
Flourishing in the unventilated cabin
Unfettered by fresh breezes
Answering to no one in your anonymity
Blamed most unfairly on minorities and the elderly
Musty and musky you hover playfully at face level
Causing accusatory glances
Though not free to leave the bus
You are truly free
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
I shan't, though you go where only eagles dare
O Bus Fart
Both bold and lingering
Like slow death in a Western Front trench
I bid thee farewell for now
Til we meet anon
Dear, unwelcome comrade
Always silent
Ever deadly