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.