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.