Thursday, June 30, 2011
I have been waiting, with baited fucking breath, all year, to not set one goddamned foot in the Taste of Chicago. It is going to be the highlight of my summer; avoiding The Taste like it's a Haitian crack whore with a needle habit and a pet monkey that I had unprotected sex with, and keeps calling me asking when we're going on a proper date. Don't get me wrong. Normally I love going to severely overcrowded places serving food on the street when it is 95 degrees and humid with overflowing public shitters and every type of low-rent criminal and social deviant one city has to offer. Typically I'm on that like a fat chick on a Denny's Grand Slam. But I'm sitting this one out. Sure, my air-conditioned condo with food I know the source of and cooked myself may not be as exciting, but I'm going to bed at night much less Hepatitis B'ed than I would if I ventured down to The Taste. And when "Flash Mobs" break out and beat the ever living shit out of some innocent attendee, until someone in the crowd who said "I'm packing my 9mm in case these Flash Mob assholes show up" pulls out their piece and starts firing into the crowd indiscriminately, well unfortunately I'm going to have to hear about that on the 11 o'clock news (Yeah, I know 11 o'clock news went extinct years ago, but I like to show my age). As much fun as it sounds, I'm going to go ahead and stay home this year and squirt hot sauce on my dick instead.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
The Scout Chronicles: If that Miniature Poodle at the Corner of Sedgwick & Goethe Looks at me One More Fucking Time.......
......I swear to God we're going to fucking Fist City. I've tried to be the bigger dog and let his bullshit go unchecked for the last fucking time. Little asshole is a savage and has no place in decent society. Someone should leave his back door open and allow him to go run with the coyotes, see how long he lasts. You can push Scout, but only so far. And then the fangs come out, and they are sharp. I'm 50% golden retriever and 50% poodle. However, I'm 110% bad mutherfucker. Just ask dad what happened last time he tried to fuck with me when I was chewing my bone. He felt the wrath of the teeth, that's what. Not one person in the neighborhood likes this asshole. Not one. He once escaped the confines of his wrought iron fenced-in yard and attacked the Scoutmeister. I tried to use techniques I learned from watching The Dog Whisperer, but the fuck if it worked. I tried to purse my muzzle and make that "Ssshhhhtt!" sound, but all that came out was a bark. Unfortunately the bark seemed to escalate the situation. So now I've got this vicious little mouse-fart of a poodle jumping for my neck with teeth bared. Hood-rats across the street doubled-over and laughing their asses off at the Scoutmeister's expense. Mom screaming like it was a pit bull. I don't need any of this shit, you know? I tried to walk away, brush it off, be mature about things. And where did that get me? Street cred, fucked. Now when I walk through Old Town I hear other dogs talking, "Let's kick Scout's ass and take his sweet potato treats", "Oh, here comes that punk bitch Scout, I heard he got worked over by a squirrel", or "Scout pisses like a girl" (I don't lift my leg because I'm self-conscious about my dick, get off my fucking back already!). Now Scout is backed into a corner. Next time that cockroach escapes on Sedgwick, flashes his teeth out on the lane....I'm going to end his fucking day, with extreme prejudice. No more Mr. Nice Scout. My granddaddy was a Mississippi leg hound who used to huff antifreeze and get into fights with junk yard dogs. You wanna go mano-y-mano with the Scoutmeister you fucking poodle piece of shit? Bring it son. I will take you down to Chinatown. And when someone finds a curly blond hair in the dim sum later that night, don't fuckin' look at Scout, that's all I'm sayin'.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Is there any point whatever in monitoring mainstream media? Is it a total joke? A complete and utter lost cause? Is there a shining beacon of truth and transparency in this murky quagmire of liars and corporate ball-washers? I may have seen the straw that broke my own camel's back on Friday night. I was watching Dateline NBC, with Anne Curry and gang "reporting" on the Kaylee/Casey Anthony white trash carnival. To quickly review the circumstances for those not up on this most important of international news:
-Casey Anthony gets knocked up young, by parties unknown
-Brings innocent child into world of her own white trash insanity
-After realizing she could not wantonly get wasted and chug cock with small child at home....
-She duct tapes the 2 year old's mouth shut, kills her, either chops up or tapes into a ball (honestly wasn't paying close attention to this detail)
-In fit of brilliance, buries the body in a very shallow grave right by her home
-Fakes a disappearing child story
-During which time she goes on a Girls Gone Wild esque rampage of getting bombed out of her fucking tree and letting dudes run a train on her
-Someone finds her car somewhere, reeking of decaying human
-Casey is still MIA, most likely playing pin cushion for local drug dealers
-They find the dead kid's remains
-They arrest Casey Anthony
-She's seen laughing like a deranged hyena in jail
-Casey's lawyer is throwing out the 'ol "The kid accidentally drowned in the pool and everyone was too innocent of any crime to call 911 and tell them the kid accidentally drowned, so instead we duct taped her mouth shut post mortem and buried the body in a shallow grave in the woods next to the house" defense
So now this is a full-on white trash extravaganza like only the state of Florida (America's wang) can produce. Fist fights between trailer park residents clamoring to get into the courthouse, sign waving, Kaylee Anthony oversized buttons on tank tops, the works. But this isn't what I'm furious about. I'm upset about the fact that no one in the mainstream media these days has even a shred of integrity, dignity, or professionalism. In a most irresponsible manner, Dateline NBC reported that during the time Casey was reporting Kaylee as missing, she was seen at a local bar/club competing as a contestant in a "Hot Body" contest. They have numerous photos of Casey scantily clad and grinding her crotch and tits all over some other scantily clad trollops on some sort of impromptu stage, huge drug and alcohol fueled smiles all over her face. She had that "I just savagely murdered my only pain-in-the-goddamn-ass child so I could finally be free to blow lines, shake my ass in public for strangers, and fuck the first guy that buys me an appletini" look plastered all over her. Apparently Dateline NBC was trying to imply/convey some sort of moral outrage the public should feel that this mother was pulling a low-rent Lindsay Lohan while her child was supposedly missing. But then, in most puzzling and unprofessional manner, they just moved on. Started discussing other aspects of the case. Speculated on cause of death. Showed expert witness testimony. Footage of Casey crying in court. Etc, etc. Can you believe this??? Sort of skipped a pretty serious and pertinent detail here Dateline. WHO FUCKING WON THE HOT BODY CONTEST?!?!?! It certainly didn't win itself. Those harlots were out there making sweaty aggressive love to that stage, and you don't even so much as do them the service of reporting who won? "A Super Bowl occurred this year between Green Bay and Pittsburgh. Now moving on to other news....". Give me a break Dateline! Did you think you were just going to throw that grapefruit by me for strike 3? No such luck assholes. I was fully invested in that entire show Friday night, as were millions of others, and you bend us collectively over and cram it in our asses. For shame. William Randolph Hearst is rolling in his grave. You are blackballed from the Pulitzer competition for life. I'm so disillusioned that I don't even know what to believe in anymore. I mean, I see these photos of Casey on stage looking rather bangin', am told it is a hot body contest......and that's it. I want answers! I want an investigation launched! I want heads at NBC to fucking roll! This will not stand, man. Congressional inquiries, Zapruder film, angry townspeople in front of Dateline studios with pitchforks, torches and Anne Curry effigies. Casey Anthony is certain to be crispy-fried by the state of Florida. But before she becomes human Kentucky Fried Chicken, the world deserves to know if she was Ms. Ray's Rum Shack Hot Body September 17 2008, or fucking not. And if not, then who was? If I have to come down there and report the fucking news for them, I will. But I shouldn't have to. How about doing your friggin' jobs for once and bring us the fair, balanced and accurate news we deserve. What is this, China? I know it will be soon, but until that time let's at least pretend we're still a free, capitalist country.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
What a PUSSY. MJ and Kobe can't stop laughing at this complete and utter tit. 6'8", 240lbs, runs like Secretariat, jumps like a kangaroo. Strong as a fucking ox. Has the heart of a 67 year old African American male from the deep south who is 80lbs overweight, has hypertension, diabetes, and has been eating 3 squares of fatback and cheese grits his entire life. Makes that lion in The Wizard of Oz look like fucking Bill Russel on steroids and cocaine. Clutch time rolls around, "King James" clinches up tighter than a virgin's honeypot on prom night. Can't wait to get rid of that ball. Forgets everything he knows about being awesome at basketball. Pisses down one leg, shits down the other. You give him the ball down 1 in the 4th quarter with 30 seconds to go, he cries for his mama. Unfortunately she is getting balled 6 ways from Sunday by Delonte West, so she can't hear him. If it were the NBA Finals and Scottie Pippen would have even thought about dominating down the stretch, but then thought better about it and still passed to Mike....Mike would have known he considered it by the look in Pippen's eyes. And after MJ won the game, he would've waited outside the arena after the game, underneath Pippen's car, and when Pippen tried to open the door MJ would've taken out a blade and severed his Achilles. Would've spit on him as he writhed in pain and told him "Clutch time's owned by MJ, mutherfucker". King Lames couldn't score on my grandma with the game on the line.
I have a one time, goodness of my heart, can't miss deal for the Miami Heat: Sign me as an unrestricted free agent. They only have to change one small thing. I'll play for league minimum. They can leave LeBron in the entire season, 45 minutes a game. I won't do shit but wave a towel and get Gatorade for the starters. However, when they go deep in the playoffs, sub me in for LeBron for the 4th quarter. Boom, problem solved, titles won. Lots of 'em. And you know why? Because I have fucking ice water in my veins. You are at the gym, the park, someone's backyard court and our pickup game is 13-13, and you pass the ball to me, guess what happens? Drained 3, 15-13, us. Game over. Will translate easily into the NBA. I don't give a shit if I miss, I'll shoot it again. You know what I won't do? Pass the ball, when I'm wide the fuck open, to some asshole who sucks. It will not happen. I want to hit the game winner. Makes me feel like a big man. I am 5'6" and white as all hell. I am not fast. I have an average, at best, vertical. My handles aren't what they were 15 years ago by any stretch. But I have the heart of a goddamn lion and I won't puss out like King Lames. And as an added bonus, I'll wear short shorts right off a poster from 1979. On every 4th quarter nailed three in the NBA Finals, you'll know right where my balls are. You know what else you get? The sickest, low-down fucking nastiest 5'6" white post game, possibly on planet Earth. So when you throw me the ball in the 4th quarter and I'm guarded by JJ Barea's little ass, I WILL NOT throw the ball back to Dwayne Wade at half court. I WILL NOT get called for a charge. I WILL post him the fuck up and unleash an array of baby hooks, left-handed baseline fades, Hakeem turn arounds, and up-and-unders that will leave him punch drunk and begging for the bench. I'll face him up, and as I'm faking right I'll throw up an one-hand, overhanded with the left shot that he won't even see go in the hoop. It looks like someone did a hard dribble and lost the ball, only you got scored on, bitch. I can post up dudes much taller than me. I would say that I will post up anyone, but after playing for several years against my friend Jed who is 6' 10.5", I now understand there are limitations to who I can post up. He recorded the kind of blocks on me that make your mom wince from 2 states away. I may possess zero of the physical tools that King Lames has, but I do have what he critically lacks: The heart of a goddamned lion. So Miami Heat, don't let this opportunity pass you by. You can substitute me into NBA Finals 4th quarters for your Class 1AA PUSSY forward, and I will handle all the business he is too much of a PUSSY to handle on his own. And for a fraction of the cost. But please be aware that I will not listen to one fucking word that tits-on-a-bull Eric Spoelstra has to say about anything. Seriously, just stuff a fucking scarecrow and put it on the bench, it will add more value to the squad than does Spoelstra.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Need your contact info brah. Cellar Tracker said they won't give it to me unless I contract to buy 2 cases of undrinkable Australian merlot. If you check the comments section of the Rockmill blog, I provided mine there. If you can use this medium as a PM, I'm not tech-savvy enough to figure it out.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Terrelle Pryor arrived at Ohio State Football one of the most highly touted recruits in history, for any school. He leaves a pariah. As Lenin once said after betrayed by Trotsky, "You are an un-person". Not only self-absorbed to an extreme, Pryor was also about as sharp as a greased bowling ball. After getting a beloved coach fired for protecting his stupid ass, he flees the scene like the principle-less pussy that he is. I sincerely hope that someday, after spending his NFL bonus and all paychecks on ice and rims until he owes money all the fuck over town, and his dead-end career flounders because people finally realize he can't throw a football off the Santa Monica Pier and hit water, that he eventually ends up giving hand jobs for cash next to a dumpster behind a Flying J truck plaza on the Pennsylvania turnpike. I cannot think of many other humans who are 6'6", 240lbs, who can run a 4.4 40yd and jump out of a gym. I also cannot think of many dumber than Terrelle. I should have known, after one of his first games when they barely beat Navy and Terrelle was hounded by the media for wearing "Mike Vick" eye black, and answered something to the effect of "Everybody steals, everyone kills people....", that this was destined to end in tears. I just didn't know how tearful the end would be. Like Old Yeller sad. I can't wait to see his scores on the Wonderlic test for NFL quarterbacks. I'd bet on a well-trained Labrador retriever to score higher. So congratulations TP. You bankrupted a program likely leading to probation, you got a local icon sent packing, and you won zero national titles. Good luck making reads on a Bill Belichek or Rex Ryan defense. And if you ever find yourself in the open field against Baltimore, I hope 'Ol Murderin' Ray Lewis "sweeps the leg".
Monday, June 6, 2011
Your husband fathered a child with an employee behind your back. WAAAAHHHHH! Shut the fuck up already. Who did you think you married, A.C. Green? You married Arnold Fucking Schwarzenegger. Do you think he made himself look like this so he could be a one-snatch kind of guy? You knew what you were getting into; you're a Kennedy for Christ's sake. The Kennedy's invented spousal infidelity. Your uncles are like the Michelangelo and DaVinci of cheating on women. Now granted, your uncles were not plowing appalingly ugly common field hands like your Austrian beaux, but they were widely dispersing their seed none-the-less. So save all of us the feigned shock and horror and move on with your $500,000,000 and start getting nailed by your 19 year old Brazilian pool boy such as your birthright entitles you. I guess the daytime TV crowd will probably feel sorry for you, but that is only because Oprah tells them to. No one else gives a shit. Would you ask the sun not to shine Maria? Would you ask the bee not to sting? Of course you wouldn't. So why would you ask Arnold to quit chasing tail?
Thursday, June 2, 2011
I discovered Rockmill Brewery through the blog of my esteemed colleague Nicole: "A Local Choice". It can be found on my profile under Blogs I Follow. Nicole is fastidiously researching people in the Central Ohio area who are adhering to olde timey food production principles such as "not scientifically enhancing complete foods with utter fucking bullshit" and "refusing to process the beejeezus out of food thus turning it into slow poison". Her blog provides a thorough review of those producers she likes and their wares. To paraphrase the great Peter Hurricane McNeely, "If you don't respect what she's doing, then you have a giant dump in your pants". Unfortunately, given today's climate of lazy bovine American eating choices and fear of all things natural which might cost $0.79 more than the ConAgra engineered bullshit (even though you need to eat far less of the natural, eventually making the price difference come out in the wash) that gives people the 5 minute euphoric high accompanying their bodies turning simple sugars into diabetes-cradling fat, I don't expect many people to start picking up what NP is throwing down. But she is doing yeoman's work, and Crom bless her for that.
But to the task at hand. While in Ohio over Memorial Day weekend, one of my mother's work chums was so kind as to retrieve for me 1 bottle each of Rockmill's Tripel, Dubbel and Saison. A brief background, and please refer to the aforementioned blog which provides more thorough and actually "researched" information on Rockmill: Rockmill was apparently purchased by some guy who quit doing whatever it was he was doing so he could make beer in southeastern Ohio. He has discovered the water which runs through his land is the same mineral makeup as Wallonia, Belgium, in the heart of arguably the world's richest beer region. The brewery is located in Lancaster, Ohio. No, not Lancaster Pennsylvania where all the Yammies (slang for Amish) live. Given the Amish don't have Internet access on their electricless farms, I'm sure no one will be offended. If you haven't heard of Lancaster, Ohio, you are not stupid. Not much happens there. Yonks ago it turned out one of America's true badasses, William Tecumseh Sherman. But since the "White Tecumseh" took Ulysses Grant's whiskey-fueled rant about "teaching the South a goddamned lesson about respect" and torching the absolute fuck out of Atlanta and other racist redneck hotspots, not much has come out of Lancaster. And if you've been to Lancaster frequently, such as I have, then you will agree with me that this guy might be off his fucking tits to have opened a Belgian brewery there. Absolutely no market for it. But you have to admire his balls for having done so. Last night I had the distinct pleasure of trying the first of the three beers I brought back to Ohio, the Tripel. This is, without a doubt, the best Tripel I have ever had. It makes the Tripels I frequently drink from Belgium taste like when a guy is the last person to leave the office on Friday night and forgets to flush the toilet, and the piss sits there until Monday morning. The color is a rich, dense, unfiltered apricot-gold with a respectable but not intrusive head. The nose is reminiscent of the aroma of the freshly-washed hair of the chick you made out with in the hallway at the 8th grade dance. The one who blossomed earlier than the other girls. The one who put out because her mom brought home a litany of dudes with hair band t-shirts, several of whom had serious boundary issues. When the most recent beaux and her mom passed out after their last bong rip prior to the dance, our mistress helped herself most generously to the remnants of their fifth of George Dickel whiskey. This is why she allowed you most freely up her shirt during this make out sesh. After basking in the scent of the potion it is time to taste. The first sip dances on the palette like the closet homosexual who tries MDMA for the first time and wanders into a gay dance club, only to hear Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" erupt from the DJ booth. From this point the brew storms into your mouth and demands that you pay taxes and kiss its ring. It is like your sense of taste is a large slave plantation in rural Georgia, and W.T. Sherman himself, with his gang of union ass kickers, has stormed onto the property and ordered you off the land and into the woods like common savages, lest you go up in flame with the hay and the chickens. The finish is long and lingering, and recalls notes of subtle spiciness and the time you were coming off those really good shrooms and took a bong rip, then threw in Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" and you sort of just melted into the sofa while that weird chick down the hall with the dragon tats danced by herself in the dark, slowly and disjointedly. And at 9.0% abv, there is no danger that sobriety will rear its ugly head and shit in the punch bowl. Suffice it to say, I count myself a fan of this delicious offering from Rockmill. I cannot wait to try the other large formats in the near future.
PS--I decided to delete Nicole's last name from this review. She probably doesn't need this popping up when potential employers Google search her name. Though she should be aware she is only as good as the company she keeps, this including her husband's asshole frat bros.