Thursday, May 26, 2011

This is the Bullshit of all Bullshits

High of 50 degrees. Rain, all day. 25mph winds. Happy fucking May 26th assholes.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

When do you have to Quit Swearing?

My kid is exactly 2 months old, so at what point do I have to quit swearing around the house? And I'm not talking about an "Oh shit!", a "Goddamnit!", and definitely not worried about "What the hell is going on?". I'm talking about jumping out of your chair in the living room and screaming at the Red Sox game, "Fuck you Derek Jeter, you fucking cocksucker mutherfucker!". Or spitting out your beer as you very clearly enunciate "LeBron James you cock-chugging asshole!". When do you have to begin cleaning that up a touch? Because right now I'm going about my business as though the child cannot understand anything I'm saying. And given what I know about the developmental stages of children, which is absolutely nothing, I am certain she isn't absorbing any of this. But at what point does "Art Modell can eat a bag of dicks in hell" register in their mind as being not typical of what other parents they know are shouting at a Monday night football game? That is my question. It really hit me the other day as I was on my own with the baby, attempting to parallel park in front of our favorite wine store (Father-Daughter time is going to be sacred on my watch). None of the jizz-mops behind me would allow me to complete the parallel as they all apparently had a 4-alarm fire to get to. As I rained down upon them vulgarities that would make General Patton blush, I saw my daughter out of the corner of my eye. She was obviously laughing hysterically and attempting to figure out which set of muscle contractions produce a middle-finger. But I realized, at some point this may have to end. Or at least be dialed down a notch. Profanity has always been a medium I enjoyed working in. Landing jobs in the trading industry has served to pour gasoline on the fire. It is one of the few industries left in America where one can, at any given moment, stand at their desk and yell "FUCK!" and spike their phone off the computer monitor. And I like that. But the first time I get called into a parent-teacher conference to be told my 6 year old daughter told a classmate to eat a bowl of shit, I might think otherwise. I guess all good things must come to an end.

Friday, May 20, 2011

Tonight We Gonna Rapture Like Its 1999!!!

Tomorrow night, 18:00 EST (and you have to love not only that the bible can predict the rapture's exact date, but it is time-zone specific as well, centered on a time zone that at the time of bible writing, no one in Europe or the Middle East even knew fucking existed!), I am on my way to Heaven for the rest of eternity. All of you Jews, Native Americans, Atheists, Hippies, Catholics, Gays, Cats, Dogs, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, non-evangelical do-gooders, Democrats, Progressives, Mexicans, Blacks, Puerto Ricans, and especially you goddamned Muslims, can collectively kiss my hairy fucking beanbag. I'm off to Heaven like a fat girl to Shoney's. And tonight we doin' it, and we doin' it big! We are going to nail so much evangelical box shut that we're gonna have to join the gravedigger's guild. I'm talking crazy Jonas Brother's ass. I'm a bit new to this party game, given I've spent most of my life in either my parent's basement or at the Moody Bible Church, but I've got every detail taken care of. I've got every horse carriage in Chicago rented out for transportation. We're starting out with reso's at Pizzeria Mutherfucking Uno! Sorry, but Cheesecake factory was too full. Apparently a tour bus full of senior citizens from Iowa have 80% of the joint taken already. Fuck 'em, we've got 2 pitchers of Bud Light draft beer for each table of 12 people, two extra large meat lover's, and bottomless glasses of Pepsi. After we're done closing Pizzeria Uno down (actually we can't close it down, the North Chicago Youth Soccer League champions have reserved after us, so we need to be cleared out by 7:30), we're off to Joe's on Weed Street. I've heard this is where hardcore Chicagoans go when they want to get down. I've got an entire corner blocked off with balloons, crosses, Jesus Christ blow up dolls, boat loads of party hats, about a thousand cupcakes, and of course novelty bibles. And don't worry, we also have an all-you-can-drink Bud Light deal as well. Unless of course you are a sinful alcoholic and can drink more than 2 Bud Lights, because that is the limit per person. I'm sure as our party gains steam, other people in the bar will be begging to jump over the construction paper streamers which Shelly so Christfully made to block off our corner. So long as they have their own 2-per-person Bud Light deal in place as well, it is alllllll goooood. And just in case they've got this thing pegged one day late, everyone better wear purple Nikes and a track suit, just to be safe. You're all on your own for the after-party. I need to get home and log into my World of Warcraft game. I have not been able to determine if post-Rapture Heaven will have internet access, and if they do, if it will be dial-up or high speed.

Bad boys, bad boys...what'cha gonna do? What'cha gonna do when the Rapture comes for you?

P.S. SPEC is going to be there, with fucking bells on.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Who in the Hell is still Wearing Jock Straps?

I was in the locker room at the gym yesterday and as I turned to go into the small area which housed my particular locker, I was shocked to see a near-naked, fat man clad in nothing other than a jock strap. As horrifying a sight as that was, it raised a very serious and thought-provoking question: Who in the mcmutherfuck still wears a jock strap? Didn't those go extinct around 1987 or so? I'll tell you who still wears a jock strap: Crazy assed summabitches, that's who. The last person I actually knew personally that wore a jock strap was my friend Bill from high school. 60 guys on the football team, he's the only one in a jock strap. He also led an Ohio Division I (That is the biggest division, in one of the biggest football states in the country) conference in tackles as a 5'9", 170lb middle linebacker. Now Bill sprints through kicked-in doors in the Peshawar region with special forces teams and screams at the Jihadists in their native tongue. And it doesn't matter what their native tongue is, because Bill speaks all of them. The point of this story-within-the-pointless-story is that Bill isn't what you'd call plain vanilla. And he is the last dude I knew on a personal level wearing a jock strap. They are small and uncomfortable. And as every man who has played sports knows, your chances of receiving a blinding pain nutsack injury increase exponentially when you are wearing a jock strap and a cup. The only person who should ever wear one are baseball catchers and hockey goalies. And maybe lacrosse goalies as well. Basically if your main function is to repeatedly stop a small, hard object launched at you at 80-200mph, then yes, strap one on. But I don't see too many baseball, hockey or lacrosse games breaking off inside of XSport Fitness. I know enough to give such a person a VERY wide berth. So I cowered in an adjoining cubby until this dinosaur had fully clothed and vacated the premises. Modern science has given us numerous comfortable and highly superior products for family jewel security such as compression shorts, active briefs, and nearly all athletic shorts manufactured with some sort of support insert such as brief or boxer brief. So why, other than to prove some sort of point to no one, would you ever choose a jock strap which leaves your ass cheeks exposed like you're some goddamn gay cowboy in the porn movie "Brokebutt Mountain VII: The Revenge of Billy McButtfuck"??? You are either insane, or you've been in a coma since 1971 and think that jock straps are still standard issue for 6th grade gym class. Either way, please stay home when you are wearing a jock strap and play "light sabers" or "Harry Potter" with your imaginary friends and leave us normals at the gym the fuck alone.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Why are People Wearing these Toms "Shoes"?

These are not shoes. These are house slippers. These are what Charlie wears, not you. I guess your dad must have dodged the draft and moved to Quebec when the Vietnam war was raging. Good for you, Comrade. You can't wear these ugly pieces of shit out of the house and pretend you aren't wearing your slippers. You may as well wear your bathrobe. While you are at it, just buy a fucking conical straw hat as well and go full Vietnamese. My friend Erik has a conical hat, and he's never been to Vietnam. So I know they sell them domestically somewhere. What asshat celebrity first started wearing them and made every other lemming leap off the cliff clad in these Ho Chi Minh cruisers? Well congratulations, you've weakened a nation today. I'm sure Toms get the job done if you are harvesting rice or sleeping off a hangover on the sofa with golf on TV, but if you are planning to walk on pavement, then enjoy your collapsed arches. Above and beyond everything else, they're fucking ugly. So what is the draw? Being uncomfortable and looking bad while doing it? If so, then great success.

If You aren't with the Bulls Right Now, You are with the Terrorists

It is that simple. There is no moral gray-area in this NBA Eastern Conference Finals series. It is child-raping mass murderers versus a selfless team who spends all their free time inoculating impoverished African children against the 743 diseases that afflict them. If the Miami Heat win this series, Lebron James, Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh are going to break down your front door and steal away with your daughters and have their way with them before selling them into the sex trade somewhere in Indo China. Bin Laden was rooting for the Heat, and if you are as well then off to Guantanamo with you Muhammed bin Jihad. Sure, Joakim Noah is very regrettable. I hate to have to root for any team which that idiotic transvestite belongs to, but such is the current situation.

How can one determine which Heat "Big 3" player is most deplorable? It is like trying to decide between Pol Pot, Mao and Hitler as to who is the worst human being of the 20th century. Bosh is clearly the biggest loser, but sometimes he is almost too pathetic to actively hate. He is like that guy in high school who is a colossal douche bag, but he kisses your ass and lets you take his dad's vintage Ferrari for drunk joy rides, so you tolerate the fact that you'd never be friends if he weren't washing your balls all the time. Dwayne Wade is one of the biggest pussies in sports today. And I don't have enough space on the internet to go into Lebron James. Anyone who bends his hometown over and crams an unlubricated 16" black dildo in their ass, and then brags about it on national television that he himself scripted, well lets just say that Dante explains where this gentlemen is going to spend eternity--and it isn't one of the first 6 circles.

So if you are an American; if you have a soul; if you think molesting children is wrong; if you do not support international terrorism; if you have a heart beating in your chest......then you must root for the Chicago Bulls. There is no room for interpretation in this battle of good versus evil.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Missed Opportunity

I have been handed a golden opportunity to buy some jeans with a ton of shit on the pockets, and instead of grasping the moment, I've stood idly by with my dick in my hand as bolder men understood full well that they had a chance to become a party of history, rather than watch it happen. Today I realized the ship has officially sailed. I can't go out and buy a pair of jeans today with a dragon on the pocket and pretend like I've been on the trend since inception. I just can't--they'll all know I'm a poseur. It has come full circle when you are in line at a lunch spot and you see several guys with dry-cleaned dress shirts tucked into pockets with a giant cursive "R" and metallic studs, or colorful dragons, and sometimes flap pockets with snaps. You sit there with your bullshit ass jeans totally devoid of pocket artwork and know that you are watching life as they are living it. And it makes you sad. On your deathbed you will not be able to smile as you recall the time you walked into that house party with your hair blown the fuck out and your multi-colored wave design back denim pockets POPPIN'. You will never know the confidence that comes from crushing Jager bombs with stitched horseshoes larger than your hand emblazoned on your ass. When a woman you've just had anonymous sex with looks at her bedroom floor and sees your pathetic jeans with maybe one measly stripe of same-colored lameness across the pockets, she'll know that just like in her pursuit to make her father proud just one single, solitary fucking time in her life...she's once again failed. Because in life there are great men with a Fleur-de-lis or crossed pistols and roses on their jean pockets. But under these great men there must always be meek, spineless men like me with pockets of indistinction. It makes me weep for my family. They deserve better.

Thursday, May 12, 2011

People Standing up on Public Transit are Dog Shit on the Heel of Society

If you picked Chicago up and moved it to India, the people who are standing upright on public transit buses and trains would be the lowest form of scum in the Caste System, the "Untouchables". If you don't have a seat on public transit, you may as well be a black person in antebellum South Carolina, because you don't have a single fucking right in the world. Everyone sitting down hates you. And I don't mean "doesn't like you", but "fucking hates your sorry ass". They don't want you to touch them. They don't want you to breathe on them. They don't want you anywhere near their space. They will glare at you like a dog that just shit on the floor in front of company if you have the misfortune of momentarily losing balance and so much as touch the corner of their book or newspaper. They would prefer you fall out of the door and be run over by the back wheels of the bus, and die, than to even consider touching one of their shoes with your own shoe. But it doesn't stop there. The bus driver hates you just as much. He/she (and occasionally a He-She) is constantly telling your stupid, bovine fucking ass to move to the back of the bus, or not stand next to the door sensor in the back. Do you know who else hates you just as much? The other people standing up. They don't want you touching them. They don't want you breathing on them. They fucking hate you with the fury of a thousand suns for the mere fact that you had the audacity to board the same bus that they are forced to stand on. If the bus suddenly stops and everyone goes flying into one another, the person you ran into will wish you dead on the spot for running into them, despite the fact they hit the person in front of them. In every possible scenario you lose. Someone sitting down farts, it drifts to your nose. Someone standing up farts, it drifts into your nose. Hot air rises. Hell, chicks can get finger-blasted against their will and have no legal recourse whatsoever. If you get finger-blasted unwillingly while sitting down on the bus, they have courts for that. But it is understood by the U.S. legal system that if you are standing on that same bus and are penetrated through force, there are no laws to protect you. The lawyer will gravely shake his head "no" as you plead with him to take your case. When you get on that bus and there are no seats, you have two choices: A) Knowingly forfeit all your rights as a U.S. citizen and human being or B) Step right back off the bus and hail a cab. Just know that if you choose option A, you are an un-person.

We're on the "Same Schedule", that is so Cool!

I can't go more than a week or two of my life without someone in the bathroom whom I've pissed next to twice that same day telling me, "Haha, we must be on the same schedule".....wait for it....wait for it.......nope, that's fucking it. That is the end of their supposed glance into the interworkings of quantum physics that would equal two dudes in the same office pissing at the same time, more than once in the same day. On my good days I smile and say "That we are", which is really my way of saying, "Push off, you fucking tosser". On my bad days, I don't answer. I don't look at them. I make them uncomfortable. It is my way of saying "Thanks for the queer-assed observation of our supposed synced excretion of liquid nitrogenous waste. Go open the nearest window and leap to your pathetic death that no one will fucking grieve, please." I couldn't be less impressed about our pissing in close proximity together twice today. I wouldn't be impressed if it happened 75 times in one week. You want to know why? Because I am the Yoda of taking pisses. I've drunk more water by 07:00 a.m. than you will all fucking day. I piss like Peter North fucks. Deal with it. I live in that bathroom, so to be in there at the same time as me more than once in a day is about as impressive as having your own blog. Hell, there are women who are in the bathroom at the same time as me more than once per day. So keep your useless tit casual observations to such crowd-pleasers as "It's Hump Day", "Almost quittin' time" or the always enjoyed "One less day 'til Friday". That way you can still be super-lame, just not in the toilet.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Are they Fucking Kidding Me with this College Tuition Shit?

I started some research this week into savings options for my 6 week old kid's college education, which will commence (of course barring some armpit hair hippy leftist rebellion of "I'm not going to college") in 2029. I did some projections of what tuition might cost 18 years into the future. Here is what I found: Go Fuck Yourself. You can talk to the hand, because the face ain't talkin' no more. All projections point to mid-range 4 year university tuition (unless of course my gal takes a Victory Lap 5th year like Da-Da) in the neighborhood of $50Billion. Well guess what? I'll show them by not even saving for it. Not one fucking dime. Instead I'm buying her a sweet soccer ball, a violin made from rare teak and strung with endangered Siberian tiger ligaments, and an abacus. Best to level-set her early and explain that she'd better kick, bow those strings, or mathlete her way into a full-ride....or be prepared to cook french fries. Because I don't see the point in even trying to pay for that bonkers bullshit. Besides what do you need college for anyway? I went there, and I want to jerk the car into a goddamn bridge abutment every morning on the way to work. If one of these scholarship-winning activities doesn't take it isn't a big deal. Like Judge Smails said, "The world needs ditch-diggers too".

Monday, May 9, 2011

The Baby Bjorn Carrier is Fun

Do you see how utterly and completely happy everyone in this true photo to the left is? Smiling, content, comfortable, preppy, near some artistic sandstone somewhere? This is a family that plays together, and obviously they are happier for it. ERRONEOUS! Erroneous on all counts! I broke mine out of the box for the first time yesterday. You need a goddamned degree in astro-physics from MIT, with a minor in mechanical engineering, to figure out how to put this thing on. I went from happy as a little lark, to seething with murderous rage, in approximately 3 minutes flat. These happy, handsome Swedes can kiss my fucking ass. Where is the slip-on version? I want to buy that. Had my wife not intervened and showed me how to use it (she already went to hell and back with the users' guide on a previous day), the half-assembled Bjorn would have been in the middle of Division Street yesterday afternoon, you can bet your bottom dollar. And when I finally managed to properly hook up the 42 separate buttons, snaps, clips, pulls, ropes, adjusters, and parachute cord, I can promise you my 6 week old baby looked absofuckinglutely nothing like that little asshole in this picture. She screamed bloody goddamn murder for several minutes while I furiously paced the condo trying to figure out how to unsnap everything my wife already snapped before leaving me to my death. After 5 minutes of a baby screaming at its shrillest volume 4 inches from my right ear, and covered in thick sweat, I finally calmed her and began my journey. She promptly took a dump 2 blocks from our building, so I got to inhale that as it wafted directly into my breathing jet stream for about 40 minutes. All-in-all it was a really great time. I recommend that if you are a first time user, open it up and begin reading the booklet 4 hours prior to your desired leave time. Also, it would not hurt to recruit a nerdy Indian guy from your local institute of technology for assistance.

Friday, May 6, 2011

If you are a Big 'Ol Fat Person, is a Poncho like the Top thing you can Wear?

It has to be. It does not inhibit the natural ebb and flow of the fat as you waddle about your day. It lets air circulate to various underfat regions that would otherwise be suffocating when wearing clothes not designed for Mexican cowboys. Essentially you just grab a big blanket and stick your giant melon head through the hole in the middle, and you are ready to rock. Another feature is the ease with which you can brush off hot dog toppings, pepperoni, cookie crumbs, pie fillings, globs of mayonnaise and french fries which miss your gullet in the frenzy which occurs at the mouth. You can just wipe that shit right off with a ham hock-swipe of the arm and not worry about buttons, cuffs or tucking in. The Poncho says "Laid back and unkempt", but without sacrificing "Ready to go to a jam-band concert".

The reason I ask is that there are two women who work in my building that wear a poncho most days. Yes, two. I don't know which company(ies) they work for, but they are in my building. How do two women over the age of 30 find themselves employed in the same building in downtown Chicago at the same time, both adorned in Ponchos you ask? That is a question for Stephen Hawking or perhaps Jean Paul Sartre, not me. But they are here. Both carry themselves with an air of slovenliness and lack of hygiene, though they take different routes to the same destination. One gal opts to shower, but never comb or in any other way take care of her own hair. The other rather looks showered, but always with hair that looks as though it was doused with bacon grease each morning and combed straight back, like a longer styling of Pat Reilly's. The latter is also seen loitering about local businesses and common areas, eating and drinking Starbucks milkshakes. She is perpetually running her ample mouth, voicing her disdain for everyone in her personal life and her coworkers. I imagine that she is an incredibly popular person in the office. My guess is that the only time anyone speaks to her is at the annual office Christmas (sorry, Holiday--thanks feminists) party when the veterans try to see if they can get the Fuckin' New Guy drunk enough to roll in the straw with her. Say what you will about their hair or their personality, you cannot say these two lasses aren't comfortable under their well-worn wool ponchos in festive Mexican stitch. Whether its riding the bus, sipping your 6th Venti Frozen Caramel Macchiato of the day, or just hanging out in the lobby bitching up a storm, you can go about your day unfettered by the likes of the vile sleeve or the sinister button. And when Cinco de Mayo rolls around each year, you're fucking well ready.

PS--The first person to comment with the correct origin of the line: "Oh yeah. Isn't she a big 'ol fat person?" wins absolutely nothing.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Dear The Donald: You Might Want to Remove Obama's Balls from your Chin before you try to Talk Again

In an utterly stunning turn of events, The Donald's surprising streak of successful assholery came to a screeching halt this past weekend. Obama first drops the birth certificate on his ass. Which by the way, if you are a "Birther", you should be taken out behind the tool shed and raped to death with an old 2x4. No sense in wasting a bullet on your retarded ass; those cost money. The Donald did a decent job of spinning this as doing a great turn for the American people, proving their president has the right to be president. Great job Toupee, because he hasn't already been president for 2+ years. Then we fast-forward to Saturday night where Obama takes a giant Mexican food and Tequila dump right on The Donald's Chevy Chase. Roasted that asshat into the Bronze Age. Less than 24 hours later Obama is giving the green light on icing the world's #1 most wanted. Say what you will about this whole bin Laden affair, and I've said plenty. But you have to recognize the marbles it took for Obama to make this call. He could have dropped in a bunker bomb and obliterated everything close to Osama. But we would have never had the proof. So he goes with the summer action flick scenario with the Seals repelling in and shooting mutherfuckers at point blank. If that fails and Osama escapes, Barack is a GOAT. So what does The Donald do now? Hopefully shuts the fuck up. This asshole has never done anything in his life. He is a Trustafarian run amok. He took a huge inheritance and pissed it away as only a privileged assclown could. He gets by on arrogance and self-promotion. Unfortunately that is good enough in this era of bread and circus, but it doesn't make him any less a human parasite. If I'm Obama I would complete this hat trick and go +1 by pulling off a menage-a-trois with The Donald's wife and daughter. Obama is at that point where he is standing over The Donald as the The Toupee is in a death circle, and the Mortal Kombat announcer is yelling "FINISH HIM!". Banging his wife and/or daughter would ensure this fuckstick can't open his mouth in public ever again.