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.