Saturday, December 29, 2012

BREAKING NEWS: Ugandan Rebels Liberated!

Psych! There may very well be Ugandan rebels awaiting liberation at this very moment, but I'll be goddamned if I know anything about them. We've got far more important business at hand anyway. This is really about the first letters of the title, those being U, R & L. Because What Sucks Now has its very own URL: . Yeah, maybe we couldn't afford the "k" and the "s" in sucks, so we shortened it to sux. And maybe its a touch rough around the edges. And it isn't a stretch to say I know fuck all about how to use my own website. But who cares? What matters is that cyberspace just got 100x awesomer. Rejoice in the fact that you no longer have to type blogspot, what a pain in the ass.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Chivalry is Not Dead

I was off to work this morning, awaiting the bus at Sedgwick and Scott per usual. CTA is still a twat if ever there was one, but how else am I going to get to work, bike? Fuck that. As much as I'd love to start each day of my rewarding, soul-enriching job with an ass crack full of sweat, I can't bring myself to do it. Besides, you're playing with your life if you ride your bike to work in Chicago. Between the cabbies who collectively think that Khartoum rules apply and bus drivers who are too busy sexting their baby daddy to check their mirrors, it is not a matter of if but rather when you are being scraped off LaSalle Street. My neighbor does it most every day sans helmet, but he is tall, dark and handsome, so I think people give him a wide berth because of that. And come to think of it, why the fuck am I going to work anyway? Total coward move showing up there everyday, ON TIME no less. Pussy if ever there was one. A real man would have told them he was resting his balls on their chin long ago. But long ago is also the same era when I was actually a real man.

Moving on. While I awaited my chariot for the poor a man teetered by slowly on a bike, a well-known crackhead chasing him on foot. He finally stopped the bike and in very modern business-like fashion asked of her, "Bitch, what the fuck you on my dick fo?" The negotiations finally under way, she replies "Man, you know the fuck I need!" Shrewd as an Arab trader, was she. "Show me that paper first." The buyer in the transaction pulled out what appeared to be some local currency that had been wadded up and stored inside of a cat's asshole for a week while the apartment was being swept by looters. "What dis look like mutherfucker?" The proprietor of the bicycle pharmacy inspected the balls of negotiable bills with the care of a diamond dealer. You simply cannot teach this shit at Wharton. And here is what I would refer to as a teachable moment: The dealer pulls out his hand brandishing numerous pills and says, "Alright bitch, which one you want?" Chivalry is NOT dead! He was well within his rights to swat the unsightly bills from her hand and tell her to come back with her shit together. He could have very easily sold her the fucked up looking pill that his pit bull tried to eat until he kicked him in the balls causing a saliva-soaked pill to ricochet off his baby's face. But no, as a sign of good faith for producing actual paper money and not a handful of urine-soaked pocket coins or some menthol cigarettes and some Jujubes, our salesman allowed this misshapen maiden to choose the pill she wanted and not the one he most wanted to rid himself of. Remember this the next time you are trying to decide whether or not to hold the door for a woman. The manners must have been contagious as the woman bade him "Thank you" before nearly crawling back to her abode to--we assume--swallow that pill along with a 22oz pounder of Steel Reserve and all her childhood dreams.

I'm unsure of what exactly he sold her. From a short distance and in broad daylight--as these co-conspirators could have given a flying fuck where they were or who was watching--it appeared to be pills of some sort. I assume oxycontin but really the sky's the limit. It could have been crack I guess. However, what I know of crack production it seemed the items in his hand were of too clean a line to be rocks cut from home-cooked cake with a Stanley knife. So I'm going with oxycontin. But I'm sure it could have been something else, something really cool that I don't even know about. That is what a sack of shit I've allowed myself to become. I don't even know what drugs the kids are doing these days. Sure, I know about those really fun-sounding bath salts that make you shit your pants and suck blood from the neck of HIV-Positive vagrants, I'm not that out-of-touch. Marijuana is still there and never going away. Kids are probably still doing coke and I think I've read where heroin is so hot right now that even kids in boring fucking places like Naperville are overdosing on it. But maybe there is some new shit where if your girlfriend huffs it from a burning pan and blows it into your eyes your dick will glow and you can screw for hours without joy or any hope of climax? And how sad that I don't know shit about it. Cycle of life I guess. Pretty fucking depressing when pondered. Although offered a couple of times I've never tried oxycontin. It seems like a pretty kick-ass time. Everyone I've ever seen on it is having a blast laying half-off a sofa in a puddle of their own drool with their eyes rolled back in their heads as an overly loud infomercial blares away in the background. But as awesome as that obviously is, I was too scared I would have such a great time that I wouldn't wake up....ever. Yeah I know, but to be honest I'm just not a carpe diem kinda guy. Oh well, world needs straight alcoholics too.

Saturday, July 28, 2012

I'm a PIG.

Oink Oink my good man.  It took awhile, but I've come to terms with it--I'm a common fat person.  Just your average, run-of-the-mill, garden variety fat fucking American pig with no will power or understanding of the word "No".  No big deal, just packin' em on USmutherfuckingA style y'all.  Sure, I could blame the baby that doesn't sleep ruining my body's ability to regulate cortisol, blah oink blah.  That is fatty talk.  But fatty I've become, and you know what?  I'm cool with it.  I'll just buy bigger pants and shit.  The pic to the left isn't actually me--I could only dream of melting panties with a big swingin' dick mustache like this.  But it was the closest body double picture I could find on the Internet which truly captured the essence of what a slack-assed bottom-feeding swine I've become.  I didn't plan this.  It happened organically and over time.  A few months go by and one row of abs disappears.  You wake up one morning and walk by a mirror and your arm is one solid, shadow-free, uninterrupted mass of pork flesh.  No more visible veins and certainly no horseshoe on the tris.  Now my gut is the first person through the door and the tops of my khakis (way too fucking hot for jeans this summer) curve ever so lovely outward like a tulip in bloom from supporting my ample girth.  I've arrived at the moment where I must accept reality, retreat to the mall and buy all new clothes sized up for today's modern, husky man.  I wanted to set a positive example for my daughter.  Truly this was my intention.  I was to be the dad IN the backyard soccer games and body surfing along side her at the ocean.  Now I'll just be the dad shouting encouragement from the lawn chair in between bites of potato salad and swills of Budweiser.  That's okay, she'll know that under all those chins, obesity sweat and XL sweatshirt, there slowly and laboringly beats an organ fat sheathed heart that loves her all the same.  The previous 5 years when I was lean and sleek like an alert Jaguar, ready to tear off running at a moments notice and perpetually on edge with sharp hunger, deep inside there slept a pig whose oink would not be silenced evermore.  And now his oink roars like the king of the barnyard.  It is 2:00 p.m. on a sun-drenched, humidity-free Saturday.  The type of summer day that bends over, hikes up its skirt and DEMANDS to be taken advantage of with a savage pounding of exercise.  And I sit indoors, air-conditioning blasting, drinking a fucking beer.  Yes, a goddamn beer (and not to throw anyone under the bus, but fuck you Gerald for texting me how awesome your 24oz Dead Guy movie theater pounder was).  I'm already planning hors de vours and dinner.  My wife and I are debating the merits of Jillian Michaels's "7 Day Weight Loss" plan that we came across during an Olympics commercial break, where we were watching the accomplishments of the young and in shape.  I feel like Jared Leto at the end of Requiem For A Dream when he awakes in a hospital room with his festering, needle-tracked arm having been amputated.  Maybe I can recover, maybe I can't.  But do I still possess even the will to care?  Or do I accept that Pfizer makes cholesterol pills for a reason (not to make money but to save lives goddamnit!!!) and march to that kitchen and go balls deep in a block of Italian cheese that lurks in the lunch meat drawer of the refrigerator?  The devil pig screams "YES!" from my right shoulder while glancing to my left I see that angel pig is still on sabbatical somewheres unknown.  I quit.  It is too late for me.  Next time you see me I'll be gut-bumping another of my fat American brethren in the aftermath of our team's touchdown, beer and bratwurst condiments spewing into the crisp autumn air.  

UPDATE: Gerald texts that he is on to 24oz Dead Guy #2.  Is this the impetus to continue my own downward spiral into diabetes?

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Aggressive Morning

Just a tip-off: Anyone who is not a fan of Conan the Barbarian (yes the original, quit fucking asking) might want to spend their 5 minutes on higher pursuits, like picking their nose or huffing VCR head cleaner.  And while you're at, kill yourself.  If you haven't seen this movie, then clearly you've done nothing with your life and never will. 

I like to listen to classical music in the morning.  It is a soothing way to ease into a new day.  98.7 in Chicago is an exceptional radio station, and my man Carl Grapentine has the voice of an angel.  A goddamned siren song.  This morning I was driving to the gym prior to Carl's morning start time of 06:00, so I was grooving along with Peter Van De Graaf.  Peter is no Carl, and I'll fight any man, woman or child who says differently.  But Peter is cool.  I was greeted today with a most fucking awesome tune, that being a little Conan the Barbarian montage.  There are few better ways to get pumped for anything than CtheB music.  I mean, obviously smoking some crack and slamming your shoulder into a wall until the pain necessitates you go do something really sweet is probably a slightly more effective way--but we're splitting hairs at that point.  I sat in the car and let the entire score play out before I made my move:

I went into 7-11 and bought some shoe polish.  Why shoe polish still exists at the consumer level, and why they always sell it at convenience stores and gas stations--neither of which sells shoes--is beyond me. But you know it will be right there below the duct tape and the cloth work gloves.  I take the shoe polish back to my car, where I proceed to lose the shirt and cover my face, neck and torso in black camouflage striping.  I was fresh out of rope for scaling the wall of East Bank Club, so I went through the front per usual.  I was greeted with curious stares from the front desk staff charged with checking in my member card.  Unlike every other morning when I present my card for swiping, today I round-house kicked the first guy in the head, knocking him unconscious.  I immediately grabbed the woman, managing to stifle her scream before she could complete it.  I slowly put her down with a sleeper hold.  With both sleeping off the assault, I proceeded straight to the main workout room.  Unfortunately I had no sword so I improvised as best I could.  As I entered I grabbed a narrow barbell, those for the aerobics classes that are super light for women.  From my gym bag I pulled out the jump rope.  I immediately ducked from view and took the stairwell to the upper balcony.  I slid down the heating duct with a primal scream.  The element of surprise was with me, as no one in the workout room at 5:45 a.m. was expecting a short, shirtless dude with cammo to be sliding down the heating duct.  I proceeded immediately upon hitting the floor to whipping every person near me with my jump rope followed by smashing or slashing them with the barbell.  It was complete and utter pandemonium.  I knew at this point time was not on my side.  Before the authorities could arrive, presumably armed with guns and not jump ropes and barbells, I dashed outside.  The East Bank Club, as the name would indicate, sits directly on the east bank of the river.  I dashed up and down the river walk until I found a snake.  Granted it was not a 100ft long boa constrictor who eats sacrificed virgins once a week, but it would do.  I went back inside to the main workout room.  I was able to use the weight stack on a quad machine to sever the snake's head.  I threw the carcass into the middle of the room, then held the barbell upright very menacingly, daring anyone to challenge me.  No one moved an inch.  I left the way I came.

This is what happens when Peter Van De Graaf plays the Conan montage to start the morning.  A bit irresponsible on Peter's part.  Regrettably I used my member card to swipe at the parking gate upon exiting, so I fear it may not take Sherlock Holmes to locate me.  But with the Riddle of Steel now solved, I can relax and enjoy my weekend.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Hey Hitler, How Does Ohio's Ass Taste?

After reading the title I'm sure you are wondering how the great Buckeye State of Ohio managed to bend Hitler over and cram it into his maniacal, genocidal ass?  The 1936 Berlin Olympics is your answer.  Fantastic "American Experience" episode on WTTW last night featuring Jesse Owens.  I recommend downloading and watching it when you have the time (57 minutes long).  Long story short, Jesse Owens is from a family of 10 kids growing up in Cleveland.  He is also faster than a 16 year old boy losing his virginity.  Jesse ends up at Ohio State where he eventually obliterates the field and the national record book during the 1935 Big Ten Championship in Ann Arbor(is a WHORE), Michigan.  4 records taken down in under one hour.  "Could you please use 'Dictate' in a sentence?"  "Sure.  Big Ten, how Jesse Owens's dictate?"  Now here comes the awesomer part....Adolf Hitler and his merry band of repressed homosexual psychotic asshole Nazi buddies are propaganda'ing all over town about how Jews suck, black people aren't human, blah blahfuckingblah.  Hitler doesn't even want the Olympics because he thinks it is some sort of "Jewish Nigger Party" (his words), whatever in the hell that means.  However, Minister of Bullshit Joseph Goebbels convinces boy-toucher Hitler that this would be the greatest of all opportunities to show the world just how superior the Aryan race really is by destroying all the other ethnic rabble in feats of strength and spreed.  Great idea shithead, worked out really well in the end.  In steps Jesse Owens with his gigantic fucking Buckeye balls.  Apparently the scene was pretty creepy with Hitler entering to the wild adulation of the German people in attendance (probably all planted party hacks, but whatever).  First off, nice fucking mustache Hitler.  You are a goddamn pedophile if ever I've seen one.  No way you didn't have a white van with blacked-out windows parked behind the Reichstag.  The main event 100 meters is the first order of business.  Owens fucking smokes every honky in the race, with the other black guy finishing second.  Oh, and he tied the world record.  Then he runs into the crowd, up to the Dictator's box, and takes out his meat sword and dick-slaps Hitler in the face before pissing all over his head.  Actually that did not happen but it would have been utter tits if it had.  He goes to the medal stand where it is customary at the time for the leader of the host country to shake the hand of the 100M gold winner.  Of course Herr Handjob balks and says something to the effect of "How could I shake the hand of a negro?"  Owens goes on to win the broad jump, where the white German dude he bested takes him on a veryVERY homoerotic waltz around the Berlin Olympic stadium arm-in-arm just to rub a turd in Hitler's face.  He wins some other event I cannot remember and in the process takes a giant burrito and tequila shit on the entire Nazi party.  The final insult comes when they replace two Jewish dudes on the 4x100 relay team with Jesse and some other black guy.  Of course they annihilate the field in that event as well.  This provided the funniest moment of the documentary, as they showed a picture of two skinny ass white Jewish guys, then show a picture of who was replacing them....Jesse Owens and a dude who looked like he could step in and play free safety for the Pittsburgh Steelers tomorrow.  It was like going into Budget to rent a Ford Fiesta and walking out with a Ferrari.

And like every feel good story involving a black person in America prior to the Civil Rights Act (and sometimes after it), this one ends in stupidity, heartbreak and depression.  When Jesse came back to the U.S., all the great high-paying offers he got from American entities while in Berlin apparently didn't actually exist, those people just wanted some feel-good PR on the backs of his dominance in the Olympics.  Jesse couldn't even get a fuckin' hotel room in New York City shortly after returning.  Someone finally let him stay, provided he and his wife entered and exited exclusively through the servants door.  What kind of shit is that?  At one point he ran a goddamned dry cleaning business.  Get the fuck out of my face!  Jesse Owens steam cleaning someone's dirty trousers.  I always assumed he came home and spent the rest of his life being fanned with palm leaves and fed grapes by half-naked women.  He deserved to be.  But instead he was so hard up for cash that he eventually started racing against horses.  Yes equines.  For shame.  "...with Liberty and Justice for All" my white ass.  You are good enough to represent your country on a world stage.  We'll get in everyone's face when you beat the shit out of them on the field of competition.  But don't even think of getting a hotel room in this country, or a lucrative job.  And since you won't just go off and die somewhere, you wanna race some fuckin' horses? 

I always love when a racist trying to pretend not to be a racist says, "What are they complaining about, they've had their freedom for nearly 150 years".  Well, yes, "they" have.  But it took another 100 years until they got any RIGHTS.  Poor Jesse Fuckin' Owens makes everyone proud to be an American, skull-fucks Hitler for the enjoyment of the entire world, and can't even get a hotel room in 1936, which is 71 years after the Civil War.  Fuckin' guy did more to fight Hitler than France and Denmark combined.

So here's to Jesse Owens.  If I were in charge, you'd have gotten the Jack Nicklaus treatment until the day you died. 

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Thanks for the New Corner, Assholes

The City of Chicago, in its infinite wisdom and with its plenitude of excess funds, has decided to install a new sidewalk corner at the southeast intersection of West Division and North Orleans streets.  This is otherwise known as across the street from my bedroom window.  It appears they have ripped up the one that was there and are in the process of laying down a new one.  I cannot figure out why we have such a gaping budget shortfall with invaluable projects like these.  The best part of this project to modernize the previously modern corner of W Division and N Orleans, is that it is being done entirely overnight.  From approximately 11 p.m. until 5 a.m., for the past two weeks, these dickholes have been working on tearing up concrete, hauling it away, and otherwise making our lives a living fucking hell.  This is great news for all involved, except of course the residents of this neighborhood who have had to collectively go in on a 5 gallon bucket of cocaine in an attempt to stay awake for our jobs.  We are, however, very happy that the single-wide lane of traffic has not had to be slightly narrowed during the day to accommodate the workers.  I wonder if the decision to work overnight has anything to do with the fact that our neighborhood is still considered, by many, to be "the hood", given that it was formerly the Cabrini Green projects?  I know many of the former Cabrini residents are still drifting around the neighborhood, but I feel very strongly that they deserve to drink 22 ounce cans of Steel Reserve in relative peace and quiet, just like the rest of us.  Would this project be occurring during the graveyard shift if the address were Mohawk and Dickens, or somewhere on Astor Court?  Me thinks not.  So keep on rockin' all night dudes--I hope this is the shiniest fucking corner in all of Chicago when you are through. 

As you can imagine, this has also done wonders for the previously shitty sleeping habits of my 13 month old daughter.  She already sleeps like a spooked cat hooked on crystal meth, and this really added a sharpness to her nightly wake ups.  Much like wind in the willows or the crash of distant waves upon the shore, the pounding of jackhammer on concrete at 2:30 a.m. a mere 50 feet from your bedroom is a powerful sedative for a baby.  I awoke several times with burning hatred in my heart for both the City, and the workers (like they have some sort of say in the matter).  I've threatened, to no one in particular, to call and complain.  But in rational moments I've realized the futility in speaking to whoever functions as "Customer Service" for the City of Chicago.  I can't imagine how that would be received by the fat woman who answers that phone in between swallows of Diet Coke and bites of 7-11 bought snack cakes.  So I stew in quiet.  Thus far my only act of defiance has been to violently flip a middle finger out the window of my car, aimed in the direction of the workers, as I drive to the gym at 5:10 a.m. each day.  I've no reason at all to believe that anyone has ever seen it.  FML indeed. 

Monday, April 30, 2012

The Secret Service Sex Scandal has Me Puzzled

If what I am understanding is correct...If you are in the U.S. Secret Service, while on assignment you canNOT have sex with Colombian prostitutes.  So what is the fucking point of being one?  What the hell am I missing here?  Am I dense or something?  I could have sworn that nailing Colombian pros was part of the basic job description.  If this is somehow frowned upon-no wait-prohibited, then I'm crossing "Secret Service" off my second career list.  BORING.  May as well join the fuckin' Peace Corps.  I'm so goddamn sick of this hypocritical, Puritan fucking bullshit that I want to puke.  This is beyond ludicrous:

1.  You can bomb, shoot, occupy, pillage and rape any country you want, so long as it is in the name of "defeating terrorism" or "fighting oppression" or any other bullshit vague and ambiguous line of reasoning.  We'll sign off on that shit. 

2. If you travel to another country, with your free time you cannot bang whores.  We'll force your shit into retirement or outright fire your ass so fast it will make your head spin. 

The moral police flat out suck.  Hypocritical shitheels all the way.  Murder lots of people in the name of "Freedom" = GOOD; Nail chicks in the name of being a drunk dude with a cool job = EVIL.  If anything the lack of sexual tension would result in all these guys having a clear head to protect the POTUS with the following day.  If you can't have sex with prostitutes anymore, then what type of people are you going to attract to the Secret Service?  NERDS, that's who.  And if I'm the POTUS, I don't want to trust my life to a bunch of NERDS. 

By the way, I know that somewhere in this story, the real story, Slick Willie had to have made an appearance.  No one is banging whores in the name of the executive branch of the United States on Slick's watch, without him being in the game. 

Thursday, April 19, 2012

The Worst Wine I Ever Drank

I was exchanging text messages with a friend recently, and topic of "conversation" hit the intersection of Eastern Europe and wine.  Don't ask how we got there--just know that we did.  It forced me to come to terms and deal with a very dark moment in my personal history.  The year was 1998 and I was on an oat-spreading tour of England.  "Study" Abroad at the University of Westminster, London, aka "The school you go to when you want to drink yourself half to fucking death and occasionally go to a class and bullshit about British loss of power in the post-war era".  They have university-sponsored pubs in the academic building lobby, for fucks sake.  It was a rollicking affair.  A photo exists of me, which assures that I will never be elected to political office (this photo only being line item #23 in a 50,000 item list of photos/quotes/videos damning me to hell and back should I make the mistake of running for anything), taking a short disco nap using Thanksgiving dinner as a pillow.  In all fairness, an esteemed colleague and I signed a non-negotiable contract to "Conduct a Thanksgiving Day bender in honor of our country (or some such wording)".  And what better way to honor the natives our forefathers slaughtered than to get pissed up to our tits in some other country that doesn't even celebrate the holiday?  There is no better way, so just quit thinking. 

Anyway, as Dre said "Back to the lecture at hand...".  It was a week night in the Hackney neighborhood that myself and several other unfortunate friends were buried in by the study abroad people.  Others were housed in lovely areas full of desirables.  Not so much us.  When we stepped off the bus on move-in day we convened looking for food.  We ended up in a kebab shop.  Mind you, this is within 2 hours of moving into our new neighborhood, which also happened to contain one of the biggest housing projects in the entire British Isles.  We ordered, and as we awaited our food, in walked a group of what would be considered white trash in the States, though I'm not sure what you call them in Jolly Old England.  Pikers?  They were fucked up six ways to Sunday and headed for a local football (read "soccer") venue for some hooliganism and bleacher finger-blasting of a similarly minded member of the opposite white trash sex.  One member of this high-society decided he didn't much care for immigrants, such as those owning and operating said kebab shop.  He began a show of taunting them, until they physically threw him out the door as he screamed that he was "Tony Fucking Montana" in a British accented version of Al Pacino's coat-hanger abortion of an attempt at a Cuban accent.  It was gorgeous.  He jumped over his wall of companions to punch one of the Kebabs in the head, and in the parlance of our times, "It's on".  The Kebabs began shouting some sort of shit that sounded like when you watch one of those CNN videos where they are pumping their fists as a group of dudes torches an American flag as other onlookers fire Kalashnikovs into the air (where do those bullets land, I've often wondered?).  They all came running out from behind their counter, some with metal rods that are used to affix the rotating kebab meat to the actual spinning disc, and one guy came storming out with a 9-inch knife, I shit you fucking not.  We were horrified but more or less trapped inside the kebab shop by the battle raging just outside the door.  For reasons which have never been clear to me, despite being 15 years younger on average and having no weapons save their own stupidity and drunkenness, the hooligans gained the upper hand and routed the Kebabs (yes, even the guy with the 9-inch blade).  Savvy as they were the young thugs knew enough to refrain from finishing them off and instead flee from the inevitable arrival of the bobbies.  As the Kebabs staggered back to their shop wailing in their native tongue, the main Kebab began walking towards me yelling something incomprehensible, but entirely menacing.  I was holding a soda I'd procured in the shop.  It seemed he thought I was part of the hooligan crew.  Thinking perhaps he was accusing me in Farsi of stealing the soda, I began to rummage in my pockets for money to throw at him.  It was at this moment that the head Piker, he of Tony Montana fame, came out of nowhere carrying a sewer grate of all things.  He said something to Kebab, who turned around just in time to catch the sewer grate square in the face.  Game, set, match to Piker.  Kebab went down like a Thai whore.  We knew this was the time to say our goodbyes and retreat to the housing complex.  I actually tossed some coins at the possibly dead Kebab on the ground and beat feet home.  This is where we lived.

So on the fall evening in question we wandered into a local bodega for libations.  They sold wine along with canned beans, Windex, 6 day old tubular meat, and the like.  Mind you this was wine in the purely academic sense.  It once had been grapes, it sat in a container somewhere, and it contained alcohol.  Given my status as both student and person who was fucking atrocious at managing his personal finances, I had with me approximately 7 pounds sterling as bartering chips.  My eyes alighted on the perfect junction of lack of funding and dire need to get fucked up: A bottle of Bulgarian Merlot at the very fair price of 2 pounds and 99 pence.  Beautiful, I'll take two my good man!  Why only one bottle of Bulgarian bliss when you have currency enough for two, I say?  We headed back to the aforementioned dorm flats to the common area kitchen that each shared.  By this time all the other international transfers knew that when the English-speaking students were in the common area, it was best to retreat to your own room and double-lock the door.  One amongst us, whose name I no longer recall, was the son of an Investment Banker from NYC.  Most of the rest of us were your average, run-of-the-mill 19 year olds looking to get fucked up for 4 months with no one to answer to.  So was he, but given his upbringing he knew enough that Bulgarian Merlot was not to be trusted and warned me as best he could.  I chose to ignore his advice and proceeded to pour myself a very tall wine glass full of the sweet elixir.  I recall the name of the wine translating loosely to "The blood of the bull".  Alas, if only it had been actual bull's blood I could have avoided much suffering.  When the corkscrew penetrated the cork it disintegrated as though it had been in a desert for 5,000 years.  This is a sure sign that you are about to drink wine of the finest quality.  At first sip I was acutely aware that it contained not only some sort of scrub-brush grape-like fruit from the hills of Bulgaria, but also motor fuel, ether, and the petrified screams of children.  In this epoch of my youth I did not let trifling matters like burning nostrils and stabbing pains in my abdomen stop me in my pursuit of a buzz.  So continue to drink this Eastern Bloc failure tonic, did I.  Needless to say the evening is not long on memories. 

I awoke the following morning, which is to say my short, labored breaths, heart palpitations, and blue-skinned cold sweating was interrupted by a period of painful wakefulness.  At this moment I knew what a recovering heroine addict felt like.  I realized at that very moment that failure was one possible outcome in life.  The room swayed like a boat in rough seas.  Though I have no proof and have never been certain if in fact this happened, I could have sworn there was an old Asian woman squatting in the corner, wafting incense in the direction of my soon-to-be corpse, reading chicken bones and chanting benedictions in an extinct language.  I am confident that during the remainder of that morning, as the skies blackened and the rain fell, Crom and Satan himself fought a pitched battle for my soul.  I like to think Crom won, but that is a matter for historians to decide.  The bards and minstrels still sing of the "The Night Of the Bull's Blood" at royal court banquets to this day, or so I've been told.

And that, my friends, is the worst wine I ever drank.   

Wednesday, April 18, 2012


Um, no.  Actually no fucking good news at all.  To be honest, what I got doesn't even qualify as "news" in any way, shape or form.  I was taking Scout out for his morning dump today when we were approached by two lovely and pleasant African American ladies.  We wished them good day and they reciprocated.  Then the most handsome of the two asked if I would like some good news?  Well obviously I want some good news.  Sign me the fuck up Senora.  My mind was spinning at the possibilities.  Did they just bake some kick assed cookies and were handing them out?  Did one of them just win the lottery?  Was my neighborhood being rezoned as a giant sports bar and chicken wing emporium and they were going to compensate us for the trouble and give me a lifetime discount on wings and beer?  Come the fuck on lady, I cannot bear the suspense for one more second.  And then she dropped a giant, poorly-formed, spinach-green turd in Scout and my morning punchbowl: A fucking Jesus newsletter.  Scout tried to lift his leg and piss on her on general principal, but I advised him against it.  Why is a pamphlet full of very poorly-written horseshit about a guy I never met, somehow good news for me?  That is really fucking far from good news lady.  Certainly not horrible news, like someone I love just got maimed or Kriser's discontinued selling Scout's preferred brand of sweet potato treats.  But good news it ain't.  Here are some examples of good news:

-The more-attractive-than-you girl you went home from the bar with at 2:15 a.m. after your 7th round of tequila shots wakes up in the morning and decides she actually wants to have sex with you again
-The office building you work in burnt down overnight (and no one was injured in any way)
-You just took a huge dump
-"Roadhouse" is going to start on TBS in 3 minutes, and your pizza has already been delivered
-Your team just scored it's 101th point of the game, which ensures you get a free Dunkin Donuts coffee in the morning
-WHAM! is getting back together

Here are some examples of bad news:

-Your HIV test came back "Inconclusive"
-You just sharted, and it is only the top of the first inning
-You are being audited by the IRS
-You find out the morning after a drunken blackout that you agreed to go to a Nickelback concert
-You think someone is about to tell you something really awesome, and instead they hand you a fucking pamphlet about a guy that died 1,979 years ago for your right to go hang out in a cloud village after you die and have ZERO fun because everything fun is outlawed there

Good news my left nut.  I felt so damn bad for Scout that I actually gave him some good news shortly thereafter, which was that I was adding a dollop of peanut butter to the top of his whitefish breakfast.  I don't want him to be disillusioned as well.  I told the ladies that next time they set foot in my fucking hood, they'd better be packing brownies, minimum. 

Friday, April 13, 2012

An Age-Old Question will be Answered this November

And that question is: Who do fundamentalist bible-thumping dipshits hate more; black people or people who don't believe in the same Jesus they believe in?  It is going to be a fascinating election in that we will know once and for all who the Jesus-loving, but black, Mexican, Jew, "liberal", equality hating bible-belt dislikes the most.  Who will their God tell them to go hate?  This is so exciting!  We're talking about a crowd who actually sent their menfolk to die for the right to enslave and beat the shit out of black people, but who also enslaved the blacks and killed the Indians because God told them it was cool if they did so.  The debate around the Baptist and Pentecostal dinner tables this fall should be absolutely electrifying.     

What is my gut telling me?  Well, here is my prediction: While they will no doubt be quite upset about the fact that Mitt believes in something that they have no concept of, but are pretty sure is some weird Northeasterer liberal-tainted horseshit, at the end of the day he believes in what they likely presume to be some sort of white, blue-eyed God somewhere.  And that might count for something to them.  And of course, he ain't "some Muslim fuckin' N%@#&R".  That is my bold prognostication.  There is just no way that a guy who is fighting to reform health care for the poorest people in the country, most notably bible-belt Southerners, can be trusted, when the guy in question is a fucking Muslim black guy whose name is obviously just a derivative of Osama bin Laden.  No fucking way.  They'll cast their lot with the weirdo religious freak they don't understand, know absolutely nothing about, and whose agenda is in direct opposition with anything that might make their lives even one cunt hair better, because hey, at least he's white.  That counts for something.  It is so damn sad for them that Santorum couldn't pull it out.  That is just the kind of low-IQ "family values" (family values of intolerance and hatred, of course) mutherfucker they would have loved to rally behind against this modern day Saladin. 

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Tis the Season for Bubble Talk Nerds

The NCAA Tournament is fun.  The upsets, the fantastic finishes.  One-and-done at its best.  In my opinion it does no better job of pairing the two appropriate teams for the national title game than does the BCS system in college football.  I actually think it does a worse job.  But that isn't the point, nor does it mean I think it is any less exciting because of that fact.  What is the point today is that the lead-up to the actual tip-off of the first game of the NCAA Tournament is one of my very least favorite times of year.  It is when every hyper college hoops fan with way too much time on their hands starts screaming to anyone who will listen that a 19-11 Virginia Tech team that was left out of the field is getting totally fucked in the ass with a sandpaper reach-around, while a 21-13 Washington State team doesn't deserve to be there.  It is by far one of the most frivolous, pointless, meaningless and utter wastes of fucking time that exists in the world.  Who gives a flying fuck?  Unless you are in charge of the yearly sports budget for the university who didn't make it, then why do you care?  Neither the team left out, nor the team who took their place, has a snowball's chance in hell of winning the whole thing.  Instead of crybabying around like a bunch of pussies, the "left outs" should just look in the mirror and say, "You know what Larry, we shoulda won another game or two and we wouldn't be in this predicament".  "Yep Chuck, you nailed it.  If we hadn't stayed out late getting lap dances from Belorussian whores back in December and lost the next day to Shitbag Tech at the Holiday Tournament, we are in the field of 68.  Lesson learned.".  But no, asshats are going to be shouting through the idiot box at hot heads watching from their living rooms about how the committee needs to be audited because Georgia Tech's win over Drexel back in December should be weighted more heavily than Alabama's win over UNLV in November.  The time would be better spent masturbating to grainy 1970's big bush porn.  At least something happens at the end.  Nobody "on the bubble", whether in or out, could ever win anyway.  Go argue the existence of dinosaurs with the Creationist wingnut who hangs out on the corner next to 7-11.  You'll get more satisfaction. 

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

What Sucks Now Uber Alles!!!!! (Suck it, Komen)

In case you aren't multilingual like me (The extent of my German is basicaly "Ich sprechen ein bisschen Deutsche", which means I speak a little German.  But joke is on you, Nazi, because that is the only sentence I know), "Uber Alles" means "Over All", like we own you, bitch.  My last German instructor told us, however, that this phrase is not uttered in Germany anymore as its connotation is one of "Germany is the ethnic master of all on earth, and will bomb, shoot, gas, and inject you to prove the point".  Apparently that isn't kosher any more for some reason.  Other than a few neo-Nazi underground bars on Hitler's birthday, I guess you don't hear this.  But today you hear it from on high because WSN has struck a monumental blow for women's rights in America with it's latest coup.  That's right, WSN fucking killed Komen.  The twit who convinced Komen to become one of the most pathetic, hypocritical organizations in America has just decided to "Step down".  Apparently the shitstorm from this very blog, the same that has 26 followers globally, was too much for Komen to bear and someone's head had to roll.  And I'm pretty sure we are all bright enough to see through "step down".  There was no stepping down.  The brass called a meeting and told Karen Handel's Nazi ass to grab an empty printer paper box, put the pictures of her kids at Jesus Camp in it, and get the fuck out before they released the hounds.  As stated in the previous submission on this topic, in no way does this make me respect SGK.  They wanted to pull the plug on Planned Parenthood.  It was hypocrisy and stupidity of the highest order, but at least they stood for something.  Well, they supposedly stood for preventing/curing breast cancer.  But I guess by standing for pulling funding from an organization that tries to prevent--or detect early--breast cancer, I'm a bit confused as to what they actually stand for.  The flip-flop shows they have a yellow streak a mile wide and will do whatever the most loudly yelling group tells them.  But I digress as I'm wont to do.  The point is that Karen Handel now has plenty of free time to devote to her intolerant, angry moral agenda.  Forcing your own version of morality on others is a time-consuming endeavor so this might be a welcome reprieve for this harpy bitch.  I think the most confusing part of the ideology of the militantly pro-life is that they are also very likely to support other forms of death.  What I'm saying is that if polled (and they have been polled), there is an EXTREMELY high correllation between people who are willing to stand in the freezing fucking cold holding placards of aborted fetuses on them, and who also support the death penalty, vote for political candidates most likely to go to war for something noble like oil, and shout down war protesters as being "un-American" and not supporting the troops.  So they are absolutely FOR killing adults who commit crimes, some of them borderline to fully retarded (GO TEXAS!).  They are most assuredly FOR killing tons of adults in another country, a high percentage of whom are innocent non-combatants.  However, they are without reservation AGAINST people who are against killing adults in foreign countries.  And Goddamnit, they are not about to stand for people being killed before they ever breathe oxygen.  Terminating something before it has any experiences or consciousness = BAD.  Teminating something after years of collective experiences and multiple emotional attachments with other human beings = GOOD.  As you can see, the logic is crystal clear.

The most infuriating part of this shithouse rat crazy pro-life cult is that they have no understanding of Jesus, depite screaming from on high that they are doing his bidding and being "Christian".  Are you joking?  Rallying outside of women's health clinics and shouting down people who are already miserable does not seem like something Jesus would condone.  I admit that I do not believe Jesus was the son of a divine being.  That doesn't mean I don't know Jesus.  I've studied him enough to know a few things.  First, Jesus enjoyed hallucinagenic plants.  I'm not joking.  Do your research.  It will lead you to the undeniable fact that Jesus had a "Me Gusta Black Lotus" tattoo on his shoulder blade.  Jesus was also about love, tolerance, understanding others, and forgiveness.  How can you overlook the last?  He was a hip, hip dude who liked to get stoned sometimes and wax eloquent about love.  Sort of like Barry White.  If you think he is about hazing mostly poor and young women for making what will hopefully be the most difficult decision of their entire life, then you are an asshole.  And on the off chance that is what he is about, then fuck him.  I have no earthly desire to be a part of that.  I can't fathom that Jesus would be presented with women who got drunk for the first time at age 16 and got pregnant, or were raped by some esses, or just made a terrible judgment call that will saddle them with a child they cannot support nor are mature enough to care for, and say, "Well bitch, you're wearing that one....4EVA!".  He'd be the first to hug the person walking into or out of PP and tell them everything will be all right.  To stand up straight and don't let others tell you who you are.  Tell them while he may not 100% agree, he understands.  Then he'd look over his shoulder at the seething mass of protesters and radio in an air strike to the command center in the clouds.  "Dad, Jesus here.  Corner of Main and Elm Streets.  Send in the duck-a-duck." 

Gotten away from the point, per usual.  Bottom line, WSN causes shake-up at SGK corporate headquarters.  Go get your boobies goosed ladies, we here at the World Wide Web are making the world safe for early cancer detection. 

Monday, February 6, 2012

We are Finally Properly Honoring the Native Americans

I was touched beyond words while stairclimbing at the gym this morning.  I have--for most of my life--been burdened by a great sense of guilt in what our forefathers perpetrated against the native peoples of this land mass.  If anyone got fucked, it was these muchachos.  The natives did get a reach around, but with a sandpaper glove.  Our morally superior ancestors walked into the negotiating tent with these noble peoples who had never experienced hard drink, and bid them swill fire water.  For shame.  It would be like walking into a bedroom full of 11 year olds, pulling out a Marley joint, getting them stoned to their tits, and then demanding they give you all their Mickey Mantle rookie cards in exchange for your Billy Ripken "Fuck You" bat Fleer cards (Anyone who gets that joke was just as big a baseball card degenerate gambler as I was in my youth).  But now centuries later this country is finally, FINALLY, properly honoring the native tribes that we so ruthlessly obliterated from the face of the earth, largely under the banner of God.  That's right folks, Sunday, Sunday, SUNDAY!  At the Kankakee fairgrounds come one, come all!  Bring the whole family to the indoor arena to watch Mohawk Chief as he crunches, crushes, drives up AND over the competition in a winner takes all monster truckathon!  If you're not there to see Mohawk Chief pitted against his mortal enemy Truckasaurus Rex, then you'd better be dead or in jail!  And if you're in jail, BREEEAAAAKKKK OOOUUUUTTTT!!!!!!!!

I can imagine no better way to celebrate the culture and history of an entire tribe of people than by painting their name and leader onto the side of a jacked up, customized, shit-stomping truck as it flies around an indoor rodeo ramming into shit to the delighted screams of white trash from Joliet to Gurnee.  No matter that the driver is not in fact a Mohawk and definitely Chief of nothing, but rather a white dude named Dale who's ethnicity is Scotch-Irish and who works at the Taste-E-Freeze during the day (but only 5/31-9/30).  That isn't the point.  The point is that the 7 Mohawks left in America that we haven't killed can proudly raise their bottles of government subsidy whiskey with pride as Dale conquers Truckasauras Rex once and for all (well, until the following month at the All Missouri Valley Demolition Derby).  All the marginable, non-human-life-sustaining scrubland in Nevada cannot compare to this level of cultural remembrance or thanksgiving.  The souls of Mohawk nation will weep tears of honor and respect as the Bud Light fueled, obese crowd imitates the tomahawk chop chant of Florida State Seminoles and Atlanta Braves fame.  They will sleep under teepees of dignity when the children go back to remedial reading on Monday morning sporting Mohawk Chief monster truck tee shirts. 

Go in peace once and for all Native Americans.  You've finally been made whole and can be at peace with the white man.  And to Dale, go in violence and stomp the fucking shit out of Truckasaurus Rex.  That son of a bitch has become arrogant and must be punished for his boastfulness.     

Friday, February 3, 2012

Susan G Komen Just Threw Up All Over Herself in Her Grave

I actually want to throw up all over myself too for having run in two of these dickhole's races in Chicago.  I want my name removed from the historical data, this despite one of them being the best race I've ever run in my life.  Due to pressure from completely right-wing hard-line religious wing nuts, Komen has pulled all funding from Planned Parenthood.  For breast cancer screenings.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Susan G Komen doesn't want PP screening women for breast cancer anymore, at least not on their dime.  Are you fucking kidding me?  It is barely complicated, but I'll take even the barely out for you here.  Group of marginally literate fucktards hijack the message in a 2,000 year old fiction novel with about 25 different authors writing off memory, many writing off memory of events they never even attended or were alive for.  Being they can barely read themselves, and have such pitifully awful fucking useless tit lives, they decide to take their interpretation of this novel to extremes and put heat on people.  Like these soulless pussies over at SGK.  So SGK agrees to pull it's $750K in funding to Planned Parenthood, because PP also does abortions.  And in classic PUSSY fashion, they are claiming it is because of some meaningless investigation going on about something unrelated.  Do you know who gets their breast cancer screenings done at PP?  It ain't Michelle Obama or Martha Fucking Stewart.  Which is to say if you can easily afford to get your breast cancer screening done at Northwestern University Hospital or the Mayo Clinic or the Cleveland Clinic, etc, you don't say, "Well, fuck it, Planned Parenthood is a little closer to my house, I'll just have it done there".  So not only is Komen cowardly denying women preventative cancer screening, they are denying it to those most in need of affordability.  Well played you sanctimonious twats.  You have shitloads of credibility now.  You know what is the most awesome part of this?  Abortions are 3% of PP's operation.  Yes, 3% OF THEIR BUSINESS IS ABORTIONS.  That is it.  We aren't talking about PP being the fucking McDonald's of fetus sucks here.  It is a small part of their extremely socially valuable operation.  And you are going to punish them for it.  Listen, I don't even give a half of one shit anymore about the abortion argument.  I just don't care.  Pro-life, Pro-choice, who is dead balls right and who is dead balls wrong?  It doesn't fucking matter.  It is a gray area and no one will ever be 100% right or wrong.  In actuality it is nothing more than a red herring thrown in front of people so they will get all red in the neck and miss the bigger picture issues that actually affect a lot of people.  I won't waste time with what side I'm on and why, because who gives a shit anyway?  Kudos to you "charity".  This doesn't mean poor women or really young women will stop having abortions.  It just means they will have them done in black market type facilities, or Tijuana, and they will have a lot more deaths and infections and complications. 

BREAKING NEWS (Reported by my wife): Komen has decided to reverse the decision to pull funding from PP!  Guess what, it doesn't change my opinion of your scumbag fucking organization, other than making me disrespect you even more.  Now I just think you are even bigger pussies who do whatever you are told by public opinion, even if you don't believe in it.  Please don't ever send me another request to participate in your shitheel race.

Also, how about Michael Bloomberg stepping up like a total fucking BOSS and pledging to fill some of the gap in funding left by the SGK void?  BOOM Mike B!  That is how it is done.  Yeah, I know he only pledged $250K per year, which for him is like me losing a dime out of my wallet.  But whatever.  That is how a baller rolls.       

Friday, January 20, 2012

The Scout Chronicles: We Gonna Drink Bacardi Like its Scout's Birthday....

You see that picture over there to the right???  That is going to be Scout all day tomorrow baby.  So don't fuck with me on Saturday.  The Scoutmeister is going to be hungover, probably as bad--if not worse--than "The Hangover".  And just let Mike Tyson's punk ass try to punch me in the face.  Bite his dick so fast his face tats will spin.  Today is Scout's birthday, cockgobblers!  Everyone thinks 1/20/09 was special because apparently it was the day that the first dark-skinned American president was inaugurated.  Fucking laughable mein!  1/20/09 is meaningful because that is the day that Zeus opened up the fucking skies and shot the Ol' Scouter down to earth in a lightning bolt.  I have never understood why people get so hyped up about our president being dark-skinned.  Who gives a fuck what color our president's skin is?  If you like the mutherfucker, why would you care if he is black, brown, yellow, spotted, honey, whatthefuckever???  My mom is red, my dad is yellow, my sisters are rust, my brother is apricot and guess what I am?  Fucking awesome, that's what.  You dumbass humanoids waste a shitload of time talking about people's hides.  You think Scout isn't humping a bitch just because she's gray?  I guess you don't know Scout then.  But Scout digresses.  You don't have to be an Asian Chow Chow with an abacus to do the math on what that makes today: The Scoutmeister is 3 years old.  And I think you know what that means?  In humanoid terms Scout is 21.  I'm gonna get my drink on tonight.  Believe that.  Put the bitches and puppies to bed, Scout is going out lookin' for dinner.  Been drinkin' tap water for yonks, and now it's my turn to get faded.  Mom, Dad and my sister did start the day off pretty nicely for Scout, to be honest.  I was serenaded in bed early in the morning--a bit too early since the little diva started squawking well before dawn--with some song about happy birthday (pretty fucking lame, if you ask me) and an oversized sweet potato treat.  Well slap me on the ass and call me Susan.  Waking up to a giant sweet potato treat followed by my usual breakfast being new to the Scoutmeister, I promptly puked it the fuck up two hours later.  But don't go feeling too sorry for me.  I waited for a moment until the swoon passed, and then then ate that shit right up off the floor, like a gangstah.  Mom and Dad are always gargling, blowing their noses, acting repulsed, moaning, going into total hysterics when they puke.  And then they flush it down the shit receptacle that I still haven't come close to figuring out.  Why would you waste all that perfectly good puke and make a scene like a little bitch?  I just stand over it like a boss and eat it right back up.  Don't try to come running over to my puke with the paper towels either.  A little know fact about the Ol' Scouter is that he'll bite your shit over his own puke.  Goddamn right.  That is food.  You can waste yours all you want, but I don't have that luxury.  How am I to know that next time my pack goes out hunting, they are unable to kill a bag of whitefish and potato blend dry food?  What if they strike out on the hunt?  Then I'm fucked.  So I'm gonna eat what I got while I gots it.  If that offends you it's your problem.  So belly full of puke and ready to rock it tonight.  Beers, shots, bitches, shots, maybe a bong rip, Scout is ready to tear shit up all over Chicago.  If you see me hit the club buy me a shot, I only turn 3 once.  Mom and Dad, you might want to put sissy to bed early cuz Scout is comin' home loaded!   

Friday, January 13, 2012

Iran, Please Shut the Fuck Up. Pretty Please

This Iran saber-rattling is going nowhere, fast.  The end result is bad for all of us.  But probably worse for you, Iran.  You see, what the These Colors Don't Run, Fox News segment of the American populace--which unfortunately is not a small segment--don't understand is this: While someone like you, or Iraq, may have nuclear weapons, or are in the ballpark of figuring them out, you do not have the ability to do a whole hell of a lot with them.  What I mean is, and what you know outside of all your dick-waving, you can't really get them anywhere.  People are only told, or only want to hear, that Iraq is "Making nuclear weapons".  They could care less that Iraq was at least 10 YEARS AWAY from being able to get a nuke to Tehran.  Let alone New York City.  They didn't have the technology, nor were they close.  And neither are you.  So the morons are going to fall hook, line and sinker for "They are a nuclear threat".  And guess what that means?  Shock and Awe, bitch.  I don't want that.  I fucking hate Shock and Awe.  But you are just begging for it like a little slut.  Please don't be a little slut.  I don't want one more American terrorist attack on a country half a world away that I have to be associated with.  Despite the fact that we have intelligent leaders (not counting GW Bush of course), they are susceptible to dick-waving.  They see you telling us your dick is bigger than ours, and they can't take it.  They have to whip out their dicks and show you it is an inch longer.  In the form of missiles you don't want to know about, fired from shit you can't even see.  If you keep running your stupid fucking mouth, all the "You wanna go?  You wanna fuckin' go?", you will leave the military-industrial machine no choice but to masturbate furiously in their little war rooms in Quantico, VA as the angry birds shit so much fire on Iran that the chorus of 1,000 wailing Iranian ladies will haunt my dreams. And then the leaders will heroically order our young men and women, a high percentage of which are poor and perfect percentage of whom are not related to them, into your country to occupy a populace that they can't even hope to understand the culture of.  Why the hell do you want that?  Do you really think you'd put up even a half-assed fight?  I highly doubt you'll play any better defense than Iraq.  It will be a slaughter, and in the end we'll all lose.  The United States has no choice--no choice at all--but to make the world safe for big oil profits.

And really, we're the least of your worries.  Your biggest concern, along with Syria and any other country full of testosterone-crazed men like it, who have so much rage because you can't bang, beat off, look at porn or drink a fucking beer, is that someone makes the mistake of letting the dog off the chain.  And then you are all FUCKED.  I mean glass parking lot, nuked to hell and back, gonezo FUBAR.  What dog?  Israel, that's who.  Shit escalates one day to the point of some American leader making the mistake of diplomatically telling Israel "It's On", and that is end-game.  They'll nuke your shit so fast it will make Hiroshima's head spin.  I'm not saying I agree with Zionism, or that I disagree with it.  But the fact is they've been pulling at their chains for yonks, and only the U.S. stands between them and your quick, fiery death.  They hate you, you hate them, and it doesn't even matter anymore who is wrong, if anyone.  What does matter is that they have the weapons and the technology and the I Don't Give a Fuck.  I really think you are getting lulled into a sense of false confidence by China.  But unless you are willing to start buying several billion dollars per year of their bullshit shoes, buttons, knick-knacks and fireworks, when shit hits the fan they are going to sit quietly and watch you burn.

So I'm asking you, from the bottom of my heart, please shut your stupid, obnoxious fucking mouth before it starts writing checks your military can't possibly hope to cash.  America has fallen into a chasm of military spending and lobbyists that it can't ever hope to climb out of.  Don't become the next practice ground and money dump for the Pentagon.  Though sad, the ball is entirely in your court.  You have to understand that the United States came to drink some beer and kick some fucking ass.  And they're just about all out of beer.  So quit bending over, pull your panties back up, and smooth your skirt down.    

Thursday, January 12, 2012

The Scout Chronicles: Someone Fucking Take me Outside Now

This is the bullshit of all bullshits!  It is snowing like a goddamned son-of-a-bitch outside.  And what is Scout doing?  Sitting in this fucking condo with two infants and the chick who is in charge of wiping their asses all day, with my dick in my paw like a sap.  Staring out the window at Seward Park just watching the snow pile up.  To those who aren't in the know--Scout is a snowhound.  Love to roll in it.  Love to eat it.  Love to run in it.  Love to chase snowballs.  Love to growl at and/or snap at any other dog who comes close to me while I eat a snowball.  I just fucking love snow; bottom line.  And here I sit all broken hearted, tried to shit but barely farted.  Evolution really crammed it in ol' Scouter's ass with the not having opposable thumbs bullshit.  This is key, and here's why.  The front door to this condo--I absolutely know how to open it.  Stand on my hind legs, put my front paws on the handle, let gravity take it down.  Effectively door is open.  But fuck you Darwin!  Scout has nothing with which to hold the door handle while he walks backward.  Oh woe is me!  If I had opposable thumbs, I'm out that door before the babies or their minder can even yell "Scout, NO!".  I'm down the hall, and the next step is a piece of cake; jump up and paw the down button on the elevator.  Hit 1 once inside (and fuck you to anyone who says dogs can't read numbers.  you know what they can do?  hit every single fucking button and then wait to get out of the elevator once it opens on the one that looks like where I exit the building to go shit).  The inside door in the Lobby, as well as the front door to get to the vestibule.....easy breezy Japanesey y'all.  Just a push button and the doors swing out.  Scout is tearing up snow and barking at mutherfuckers that get close so fast your head will spin.  But since the humanoids have the thumbs I have to wait for their stupid asses to get home, make stupid ass faces at my sister, read about how many times she ate liquid food or took a dump throughout the day, pretend like they don't see the Scoutmeister, and then maybe....maybe I get to go outside and start pounding snow.  C'mon fate, can a brotha get a thumb?  Just one thumb.  I'm not even asking for two.  With one lousy, ugly, fat fucking thumb, just think what Scout could do.  Open the door and go out in the snow and do whatever the fuck I want without dad's stupid ass yelling "NO!" when I eat goose shit (delectable btw).  Open the treat cupboard and crush the sweet potato treats.  Open the drawers they stick the bones and elk antlers in once they feel it has reached the point Scout might bite a mutherfucker over it.  The sky is the limit.  But without the biological key to this puzzle, Scout lays on his memory foam bed with his postcard view of the world he is locked out of.  FML.    

Breaking News---FAIL

This morning I'm at the gym, dominating per usual.  Finishing out on the Stair Climber, when I see a BOMBSHELL of a news story blow up on the screen, via Rob Elgas.  Apparently in Oregon there is a massively obese cat which has been taken in by the Humane Society.  He needs a fucking new workout partner!!!  This pussy needs to lose some weight, stat.  The cat needs help.  Why this story wasn't the lead for today's morning news is beyond me.  We've got a morbidly obese cat trying to pave the way for CBS's newest hit, "Biggest Loser: Feline Edition", and you are burying this golden shit behind some Nancy-pants shooting on the west side and 9 car crash on the Eden's Expressway.  I wish someone would make me CEO of NBC5 News right now.  I'd call everyone in the main conference room, from the CIO right down to Holga the night janitor, and tell them they have 30 minutes to pack their fucking shit before I release the hounds.  "Oh, just a story about a goddamned sumo cat right here in our own country, not some place where freaky shit happens every 30 seconds like India and China.  Let's put in on minute 57 of a 60 minute telecast, sound good?"  "Sure Larry, works for us.  We don't even have to work it in at all if you think people won't be interested in a story about an obese cat who has made up his mind to get fit before it is too late?"  Did I, I'm quite certain I've not yet mentioned....that the cat's name is Walter???  Fuckin'-A right man, dude's name is Walter for Christ's sake.  Not some lame ass name like Mittens or Pawsy or Patches or anything.  Completely awesome name: Walter.  Who the fuck is in charge of putting together a show over there, the heroine addict who hangs out next to the dumpsters in the alley behind the studio? 

And this isn't even close to the worst part of this abomination of a telecast.  Are you fucking ready for this shit.......Rob Elgas explains the story, in full, and then with a totally straight handsome face looks into the camera and says, "We don't actually have a picture of Walter."  What.  The.  Fuck.  Are.  You.  Talking.  About.  Ass.  Hole!  You don't have the picture of the most obese cat on the planet who is trying to Jared his way into stardom?  SWEET FUCKING STORY BRO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Seriously, everyone there is sacked, with prejudice.  What is the point of even bringing this up without the picture?  Actually, don't waste both our time trying to think of an answer, because there is no fucking point.  Look above.  I found the picture.  It took me 7 seconds.  My resources were a shitty (and I mean shitty) PC and Google.  Rob, you goin' into battle with this type of support team?  You're rollin' in there naked pal.  If these fuckers can't even get you a photo of Walter, then let me explain how you can do it:  Go over to your computer, the one you use to email pictures of your boner to summer interns.  Double click on the blue, lower case "e" with a gold ring around it.  In the white box at the top which probably has the NBC5 News address, erase it and type in  Then click on the "Images" link.  Now in the search box type in "obese cat oregon" and depress your Enter key.  The first one is Walter.  Hold your cursor over the picture, and double-click your mouse.  With Walter on your screen, go to the top and click the icon that looks like a printer.  Then in the pop-up, click "OK".  Now walk to the printer.  No, not the one you made Emma the intern copy her beaver on by telling her she had to in order to "get anywhere in this business".  That is the copy machine.  Look around, it will be making noise and an image of Walter will be sliding out of it.  Take the picture, put it on your anchor desk.  When you talk about Walter, hold it up next to your face.  You have to turn it around so the image is facing the camera.  Good job, now we can see what the fuck you are talking about.  I get it, you are handsome.  You are the money on the show, not the fucking immigrant laborer.  But this time you should have taken the bull by the balls and done a little ground work yourself.  No Pulitzer for you, bandejo.

You can't make an impact with a fat story unless you can back it up with photo documentation.  Here is how you handle your business properly:

1999.  My roommate goes to Hilton Head for spring break.  When he returns, he has a story, as do others on the trip, regarding this epic whale he harpooned.  To protect him, I won't use his real name.  It rhymes with Will Pagoda, so we'll call him that.  Will Pagoda was no Captain Ahab chasing down whales obsessively--this one was purely for sport.  Everyone told me, "You can't believe how huge this walrus was that Pagoda banged!".  You are right, I can't believe it, because all I have are reminiscences from drunk dudes already a week old.  One crafty fellow says, "Just wait", all cryptic-like.  Well he delivered.  For all the young readers out there, around the turn of the millennium, you took pictures, then went to a business such as Walgreen's and had people "develop" them.  I know, this is some old-timey shit we're about here.  So this fine fellow presents the photos, and we have our Zapruder: Another colleague of ours slipped into the crime scene early the next morning, while both the hunter and Shamoo were still snoring.  He took a photo holding her jeans.  Well, they were jeans in the purely academic sense.  There were two legs, a button closure, a zipper, made of denim, of a blueish hue, etc.  However, they looked more like the curtain on Broadway.  And this savvy young lad had the wherewithal to not only hold them up, but he put them on.  One leg, that is.  As in he is holding up the jeans and standing in them; his entire lower body in just one of the legs.  You read that right, ONE FUCKING LEG.  There are many who can confirm this story and I do pray the photo still exists for posterity's sake.  We wouldn't want this lost to history or stolen by Nazis.  I am not talking about some elf or spright either.  The guy standing in the jeans is probably 5'10" or 5'11", with a stout, athletic build.  Yet he could fit entirely in one appendage of this basking shark's cellulite retainer.  Now I ask you this, Rob Elgas.  If a group of some of the drunkest frat guys in the state of Ohio (and if you know many people from Ohio, you realize that this puts them fairly high in the running for drunkest frat guys nationally), using 13 year old technology, can nail a "You aren't going to believe how fucking fat this ______ is!" story to the wall AND paint it.....then why can't you?  You make me sick.     


Monday, January 9, 2012

Unacceptable Typo; Buckeye Sticker for Peter H's Helmet Today

Anyone who went to college with me knows that I do not fucking tolerate grammatical errors and typos.  I may tolerate my own GPA falling off a cliff from freshman to 2nd senior year.  I mean if you saw it on a graph it looks like the U.S. stock market on Black Tuesday.  However, during that downward spiral, shit was spelled correctly and worded properly.  So when Peter kindly pointed out this morning that I'd spelled the word "Witchcraft" in the title of the last blog "Withcraft", I was appalled.  Thank you Peter, you will receive your Buckeye sticker at the next team meeting.  I have already sacked the entire fucking editorial division.  Seriously assholes, what the fuck is "Withcraft"?  Are you doing things, craftily?  It isn't even a fucking word.  With the kind of money I'm paying the editorial staff, I expect a little professionalism.  Withcraft.  I'll fucking Withcraft you!  Putzes.  The correction was made and consider this my formal apology. 

So anyway, if anyone with editorial experience who also has enough common fucking sense to know that Withcraft isn't a word, is looking for a job, let me know.  Send your resumes to Scout, he is the hiring manager at What Sucks Now.  And as an FYI, if you want your resume to be at the top of the pile, may want to slip a dried sweet potato in with it. 

If You Practice Witchcraft, May Want to Cancel Your Trip to Saudi Arabia

Consider this a public service announcement for all the young ladies considering a nice relaxing vacation in Saudi Arabia.  Leave your Necromancy books at home and do not make any public jokes which involve straddling a broom handle.  Apparently the Saudis don't have a laissez faire attitude on that sort of shit, given that they very recently beheaded some chick for practicing witchcraft and sorcery.  Who knew?  When I think of Saudis, the words which come to mind are "moderate", "reasonable", "tolerant" and "Bob Marley".  But I guess Salem Witch Trial jokes don't go over so well in Riyadh.  Check your luggage, and if there is anything, anything at all, in your toiletries bag which contains newt in any form, leave that shit at home.  Even if it is synthetic newt derivative and no newts were actually harmed in the manufacture of, just to be safe don't bring it to Saudi Arabia.  I would also advise anyone with a wart on their nose to consider the removal of said wart prior to leaving for Saudi Arabia.  If you own a tall, black conical hat, I would also suggest not packing it.  If your skin is greenish you may want to give up on your dream of seeing this mysterious, flat desert scape.  It just isn't worth it.  Because while the Saudis may tolerate blowing things containing numerous human beings to hell, they sure as shit don't fucking tolerate putting a hex on your neighbor because his dog shits in your sand.  It is well known that a Saudi death sentence for "Witchcraft" is actually their way of silencing political dissent.  But are we splitting fucking hairs here or what?  "Political dissent" and "Sorcery" are basically the same thing.  Can you explain the difference between the two Larry Liberal?  Didn't think so.  No one tells you how to wear your Teva sandals, so quit trying to tell the Saudis the best way to get people to shut their fucking mouths.  If you ask me, dragging a person into a public square and having a masked man force them to their knees and chop their fucking head off with a goddamn sword is a pretty good deterrent to suggesting that women be allowed to show some ankle or wrist at a restaurant.    

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Good Morning Crack Head!

I can think of no better way, no better way in the world, to begin a beautiful, 20 degrees above normal, blue bird sky, January Saturday morning than a crack head serenade.  Can you?  Before the sun was up this gorgeous day, at 06:45 CST, I heard from Division Street the most beautiful cacophony emanating from a joyous crack head who awoke early from his slumber to greet the sun.  Or perhaps he was lamenting the retreat of the moon as it signaled an end to the night's revelry.  Whatever the case, our family thanks you, Carl Crack, for allowing us to begin our day enjoying your celebratory song.  May January 7, 2012, bring unto you all your heart desires.  I will assume it desires more crack, and we hope you acquire that crack without enduring any pistol-whippings, sex-acts, theft, bloodshed, or police pat-downs.  God speed good sir!  

Friday, January 6, 2012

The Scout Chronicles: Shit Got REAL on Christmas Morning

Scout LOVES Christmas.  I need to get that right out there in the open.  Fires, trees to piss on, decorations to chew up, drunk humans dropping food out of their fat fucking mouths all day long, Grandma gets me bomb-ass toys, just a time of year when everything starts coming up Scout.  This year was no different.  I got a dog that I have since kicked the ever living shit--er stuffing--out of.  Grandma also got me this bitchin' toy that has the body of a.....I haven't a fucking clue.  Turtle, chupacabra, whatever.  Most importantly it has Santa Claus's head.  That is all Scout needs, give that fat bastard a run for his money.  2 Christmases ago I was feeling a bit froggy and tried to steal aunt Cora's (seen above, left) new toy skunk.  Achy-Breaky, Big-Mistaky.  Narrowly avoided being caught in a vicious jaw chomp and only Scoutmesiter's fleet paws saved him from the bull charge.  That and my Uncle MEG stepping in on my behalf.  Dude is like the Falconer or some shit.  Animals just respect him.  Even the ones he kills while hunting.  But back to this year.  After the usual opening of the gifts (and to be honest, though Scoutster's math skills aren't exactly Stephen Hawking like, I'm pretty sure I take it in the ass on the quantity of gifts) and the eating of the food and the walking around aimlessly picking up all the loose paper that I would be more than happy to chew the shit out of, the family decided to go hiking.  Me, Aunt Cora, Uncle MEG, this woman who has been spending an inordinate amount of time with Uncle MEG the past couple of years, Grandma, Grandpa, and my other Grandpa.  Oh, and of course Mom, Dad and my little Sister.  But fuck them, they didn't even bring any toys for the Ol' Scouter on Christmas morning.  Some liberal hippy shit about giving me my presents at home early.  That isn't how it works, assholes.  I get presents early, I get presents on Christmas day.  What, has dad been losing at the track or something?  So off we go to a state park.  Lovely affair.  Nice little water fall, Scoutmeister got his paws wet, rolled in buku deer shit, ran back and forth from person to person with no real destination.  It was a soul-quenching day to be honest.  Blue bird sky and a very long walk.  Eventually my dad, me and my little sister got way out ahead of the pack because sissy started squawking, as she is prone to do, and we needed to get to the car.  Dad's got her in some stupid assed carrying case which flattens her up against his chest.  I hope she likes smelling chest hair.  For the life of me I don't understand why they don't just throw a collar around her neck and hook a leash to it.  Works for the Scoutmeister.  Hell, I can pick them up one after-market for 50% off when we get home if they want.  Which brings me to the crux of the story: Scout was cruising around out in the woods, totally off-leash.  That is fuckin-A right, easy breezy, no goddamn leashy.  We're nearing the very end of the hike when we encounter three humans walking two dogs, both of whom were on-leash, as the law demands.  Don't care for the law in our clan.  We are the fuckin' law.  So dad approaches with my sister, as does Scout.  To be honest, my first instinct was to start kicking some ass.  But given it was Christmas, I decided to do the polite thing and sniff some anus.  Dad is telling the humans that there is nothing to worry about, Scout is a nice dog and we didn't expect to encounter anyone on Christmas, yadda yadda yadda.  Then he says the stupidest shit I've heard in yonks, "There is another, much larger dog, a short distance behind.  But don't be alarmed, she is even nicer than Scout".  BAHAHAHAHA!  You were there two Christmases ago when she nearly fucking ended Scout you dumb shit.  Are you stupid or are you knowingly lying?  And then it happens.  Aunt Cora crested the ridge above our position, sun behind her.  Dad and I looked at each other, and just by the way Cora was standing, we knew shit was fucked.  She comes marching down the like Nazi army into Paris.  She sniffed the first dog's ass on a drive-by, starts sniffing the other's.  What happened next I can only speculate, it may have been the second dog whispered into Cora's ear that she eats cat shit or that her asshole smelled clean.  Whatever it was, Cora bull-charged that son-of-a-bitch straight into the bushes.  Spit flying, chomp-barking, snarling, humans screaming, you name it.  And once Cora locks in, you are hating life.  Dad runs over yelling at Cora, acting like he is going to step in.  Yeah right!  You are just going to step in between a bull mastiff in full-blown berzerker mode and her victim, with an infant strapped to your torso.  High comedy.  Scout was bounding around, just waiting for that other dog to start some shit so the Scoutmeister could put him in the hurt locker.  Now my sister tells it that I was standing directly behind dad's legs, quivering and whimpering like a little bitch.  Whatever, don't believe a goddamn thing that chick tells you--she isn't even house-broken.  Some how, some way, the only person in the world Cora defers to ultimately is my grandma, who was screaming bloody murder and got Cora off the other dog.  Dad is all apologetic, like "Oh, so sorry I told you the mastiff was polite.  She is actually a stone-cold fucking killer and you are lucky your half-assed old collie mix is still breathing.  Merry fucking Christmas ya schmucks."  Or something to that effect.  I don't even know where I was headed with this whole thing, but the bottom line is, you fuck with the bull (pun intended, Scout has a rapist's wit), you get the horns.  Hope everyone had a happy holiday.  Scout out.     

Get Your Head out of Your Ass Dude

I went for an espresso (Have become total Euro trash since 2010 vacation to Italy) at Intelligentsia today.  I hated espresso my entire life.  Just the foulest, most bitter shit.  And then finally 1.5 years ago I actually tried it and realized I liked it.  Nothing vaguely resembling what it tasted like when I had never tried it before in my life yet determined it sucked.  Who knew?  On my way I passed an immaculately dressed, rather large man, headed in the opposite direction.  Sharp blue suit and some hip cowboy boots purchased from some place I've never even heard of.  And a scarf.  A big, fire-engine red, fuck you scarf.  It is 55 degrees and sunny today.  It wasn't even tied for warmth but rather for show.  Mind you, he didn't even have a jacket on.  The pattern was huge skull and crossbones.....or so you might think before you looked closely.  I understand skull and crossbones have been hot for several years now.  And I concede that it has somehow become socially acceptable for dudes to wear ornamental scarves (although I would have liked to see someone sneak one past my Grandpa Ken while he was still alive.  Not so fucking fast, muchacho) these days.  How that happened, I'm not sure.  But I'll let a dude slide I guess with a trendy scarf on a warm day.  But then I looked closely.  The skulls were actually bunny rabbits.  Not even mean looking sadistic fucking evil bunnies either.  Goofy ones with big teeth.  Get the fuck out of my face bro!  C'mon man, clean that shit up.  There were still crossbones below.  What the fuck kind of statement is the designer trying to make?  If the statement is that you're a huge asshole, then you win this season of Project Runway dickhole.  And don't try that "Well, maybe he's gay" argument either.  There is having a little flair--which I completely respect--and then there is having a little fucking respect for yourself.  This violates the latter, egregiously.  You are better than this buddy, start acting like it.     

Thursday, January 5, 2012

There are Walks of Shame, and then there was this Bitch

I want to clear one thing up:  Usage of the word "Bitch" does not mean I think all women are bitches, in a technical sense.  In the parlance of our times, bitch is a chick, it is a dude, it is a dog, it could be your grandma if you live in a socioeconomic area where your grandma is only 38 years old and is cool like that.  The connotations of the word bitch have become much like that of "Gay", in that it often is used in a context that is distantly related-at best-to what the word's context would have been decades ago.  So if you want to get all fucking Gloria Steinem and accuse me of being a chauvinist or something, don't blame me.  If anyone, it was Snoop Dog's fault.  And Dave Chapelle.  Like all cool things that black people do, Whitey has stolen and adopted it as their own.  I doubt cool black people even say bitch anymore.  They probably have some way hipper, edgier word for women now, like Vampire, or maybe Doe, Mare, Jenny, whatever.  I'm pretty sure that if white dudes from central Ohio have caught on, then black guys in Oakland have moved well past it.  Enough of this administrative bullshit, the real reason for my communique is below:

I wish errrrone could have seen the Walk of Shame that my family witnessed early in the morning of 1/1/12.  We were returning home from breakfast on New Year's Day at Nookie's on Wells Street in Old Town.  I'm sure the hungover employees who had to work at 6:30 a.m. on New Year's Day were absofuckinglutely thrilled to see my wife and me, with a particularly energetic 9 month old baby.  Probably exactly what you are hoping for while trying to choke back puke.  We had a lovely breakfast while the baby threw shit everywhere.  Yeah, real funny baby.  Everything you threw ended up on a filthy, ancient carpet, and ultimately back in your mouth without any sanitizing whatsoever.  So joke is on you, baby.  We leave breakfast and are driving south on Wells Street, approaching the intersection with North Avenue.  At first my brain did not believe what the eyes were telling it.  It appeared that a young woman was walking east on North Avenue across Wells street, barely dressed.  As we approached North we saw what was really happening: A barely dressed young woman was walking east on North.  Maybe not a huge deal, but a few details must be considered.  First off, it was well south of 9am.  Secondly, it was about 38 degrees.  Third point of consideration is that it was very windy.  Lastly, it was raining.  So we had a woman in her 20's wearing a very revealing mini dress walking home with no coat, hat or gloves, in the rain on a day when the wind chill was likely in the teens.  Happy New Year indeed madam!  We can presume from the clues provided that she was not headed to church.  I don't want want to gang up on this poor lass too harshly (which is why I'm writing this of course, I want to be fair), but she was what we here in the industry (the judging people industry, that is) would refer to as "a fire hydrant".  She was not very tall, but she was quite stout.  Since the mini dress left little to the imagination, I can accurately inform the readers that there was no clear demarcation of where her back ended and her ass began.  She walked briskly and with purpose, and although there were numerous cabs in the vicinity, she hailed not one.  So we can also speculate that she was without funds to procure a ride home.  So now we have a situation where she is walking with barely any clothes, in hypothermic conditions, and has no funds to extricate herself from the situation with any dignity in tact.  This my friends is a walk of shame.  I guess the Christian thing to do would have been to pull over and offer a ride.  However, I am atheist and atheists are mean and only do mean shit to people.  Disbelief in God and kindness are mutually exclusive--just ask a reasonable person like Pat Robertson.  Besides, the only spot left in the car was next to the baby, and our heroine likely smelled of cigarettes and remorse, neither of which I want the baby to inhale.  Also she would have been on Scout's usual spot, and out of respect for him I didn't want a potentially leaking person to occupy his real estate.  Unfortunately due to conditions and timing issues, I could not procure a cell phone photo.  You'll have to trust me that there was nothing graceful about this entire scene.  Being booted half-naked out of a dude's apartment into an unforgiving Chicago January Sunday morning with sticky thighs is no way to begin 2012.  You are really going to have to tweak those resolutions after firing out of the blocks this slowly.  The fact that you are not offered a ride home is one thing.  Not everyone has earned that.  But to be kicked out without so much as an old fleece or stained sweatshirt is another.  It is the ultimate referendum on your value as a potential mate that you were not--at minimum--given $20 to catch a cab back to your lair.  That stings.  She may have actually been physically escorted out the door; no stretch given the circumstances.  And kudos to my wife for having the wherewithal to tell me to turn onto North for a better look.  I was about to proceed through the intersection with only a brief glimpse.  But due to my wife's cool head under pressure, we took an unnecessary turn onto North avenue to better view this very rare Class 1AA Walk of Shame.  We can only hope for this poor lass's sake that the romp of 5 hours previous was conducted under the tutelage of latex.  You don't want to compound your late start to the New Year with a anxious trip to the free clinic 5 days later. 

I am so glad I didn't have a daughter.  Oh wait, fuck.