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.

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. 

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.       

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 mention.....no, 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 http://www.google.com/.  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.     

   

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!  

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.     

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.    

Get Stabbed with a Meat-Sword at The Butcher & Larder

Yeah, take it.  You swallow that meat.  Swallow all of it.  Yeah, you know you love it......wait, what are we talking about again?  Oh yeah, somewhat new Chicago butcher shop (actually I haven't the fucking foggiest whether or not this place is new, but it is new to me, and I am the only person in the world who counts, so it is fucking well new) the Butcher & Larder.  Located on Milwaukee in the Noble Square neighborhood (and I hope people have noticed just how fucking en fuego I am since I learned how to link shit on this blog), it is not a conspicuous store front.  If you decide to check it out, go south on Milwaukee from Division, and it is a little before Augusta on the west side of Milwaukee.  Once there, prepare yourself for a steaming hot meat injection.  Not like the one you got on spring break that one year in Cancun when you don't remember anything after that guy Dave dropped an "aspirin, you know, for the hangover" in your margarita and you woke up 8 hours later on an abandoned beach naked and sticky...but kind of like that.  For years I frequented a venerable old butcher shop in Lincoln Park.  It is still a great store with fun employees and I hate to forsake them.  But forsake them I have.  In a meat waving contest, they just don't measure up.  Everyone needs to question at some point: What quality of meat are you putting into yourself?  If your answer is "I don't care", then I guess you aren't health conscious, taste sensitive, and more than likely your dad never showed you any affection.  Quite possibly your uncle Chester may have had some boundary issues.  But anyhoo, the Butcher & Larder is not pimping average, suspect meat.  You don't need a condom for their meat.  B&L is butchering animals from producers that let livestock dance and twirl around the farm eating grass, like a shrooming hippy at a Phish concert.  They don't buy animals from livestock prisons where the inmates are kept in squalid little cells festering in their own shit and fed hormones all day. 

My first trip to B&L was late in the afternoon on a Saturday, and by the time I arrived they were all fucked out....er I mean all sold out of most everything.  I picked up the last of the filet for the wife, then headed to my old standby shop for my own cut.  Per usual, I got a big fuck-you bone-in ribeye.  Grilled them up and guess what?  My ribeye tasted like a dog shit brownie compared to that filet.  It wasn't that my steak was bad....it was that B&L's was that good.  For all those assholes out there who claim there is no difference between organic food and food that was stepped on by 5 different dealers between Colombia and you, just give B&L a try.  Their ground chuck is hands-down the best I've ever eaten.  Yes, it is $6 per pound which is more than you'll pay for gray, dodgy-assed meat lurking deep in the bowels of the butcher counter at Jewel or Dominick's, threatening to cut people with a blade if they get too close.  And if you want to buy that shit and then spend 20 minutes making it edible with various kitchen minerals and compounds like a fucking chemist, then be my guest.  But if you want to form the patties, throw them on the grill as is, and then eat the best goddamned burger of your life, fork over the extra $2.00 and quit being such a cheap fuck your whole life.  Eat it slow, enjoy every swallow.  Make it sexy.  Beyond the aforementioned meat selections, they've got shit you haven't even heard of.  Goat legs, sausages you can't pronounce, pates, lunch offerings, I think you can even get baboon meat if you first prove you aren't wearing a wire.    

So if you want to get pounded by some major league stud meat, then give the Butcher & Larder a try.  You will not be disappointed.  Tell 'em Zach sent you.  They'll have not one fucking clue who Zach is, but at least it will make things awkward for a hot second before you buy your meat.       

Hey, Thanks for the Ciggy Hit Fucko!

Walking to work this morning from the bus drop off.  Feeling pretty, pretty, pretty fucking sprightly this morning if I do say so myself.  For maybe the 5th time since her glorious birth, my daughter awoke only once in the night, allowing me nearly 7.5 hours of sleep.  5-6 has been the norm.  I had a nice workout at the gym.  Even did a weight check, and my fat ass has dropped a couple of pounds of baby weight.  I know I didn't carry the baby, but I've been eating for two regardless.  So I'm fairly well prancing east on Adams toward the office.  Then, much like the randy teenagers who have been fucking like rabbits with reckless abandon for several months only to see a + sign appear on an at-home pregnancy test, my perfect world came crashing down around me.  Positioned in a most lazy, partially-standing pose, was some fat, bearded, stenching vagrant.  Due to the tendinitis in my foot and my innocent nature, the fight-or-flight message being blasted out from my brain was lost in translation.  End result was my taking, full on broadside, a giant ciggy smoke exhale.  Right to the fucking Chevy Chase brah.  I coughed and stumbled to the side as if shot.  I cast a menacing glare in this crumb-bum's direction, but he was oblivious to anything occurring in the world outside of his cigarette and the Bachman-Turner Overdrive concert from 1974 that plays continuously and loudly inside his head.  Just this dirty, shit-eating grin, staring right past me.  I was just a cunt hair away from beating the shit out of him right in front of rush hour pedestrian traffic.  And by "beating the shit out of him", I mean "storming away furious, fantasizing that I was one of those guys who just punched people in the face".  At some point during those fantasies I usually remember that I'm 5'6", and a pussy.  But c'mon bro, you've got to be fucking kidding me???  A heater blow right in my grill at 08:15 in the a.m.  What a fucking penis.  Ruined my whole morning.  I don't intrude on your morning routine by spraying you with Lysol and hitting you in the face with a bar of soap, so why you gotta fuck with me?  And great way to spend your pan-handling money dude.  A $10 pack of nutritious, delicious, refreshing cigarettes.  I don't understand cigarettes.  It is well documented that I am a great hater of cancer-sticks.  I have many friends and relatives who smoke, and I've got nothing against them personally.  I just don't get it.  Cigs don't get you high or drunk, they are expensive, they taste like shit, they are hot, they make your mouth taste like cat hair, and turn your fingers yellow.  Oh, and they kill the fuck out of you.  I think that covers all of their many attributes, all positive.  Anyway, fuck that vagrant and the invisible horse he rode in on.  It made me wish my friend Gerald still lived in Chicago.  He was a famous bum pugilist.  Just because you shit in an alley didn't protect you from his fists.     

This Crack is Off the HEEZIE!

If you live in the Sedgwick & Division/Seward Park neighborhood of Chicago (formerly the Cabrini Green projects), then you know what the fuck I'm talking about.  A local dealer dropped a BOMB on 'em son!  There are always a few random crack heads flitting about to and fro in this neighborhood, that is a given.  I've come to enjoy their antics, to be honest.  However, since Seward Park Crack Fest 2011 something is VERY amiss.  Mutherfuckers are off the chain.  Cats are running around with the same body motions as those virus zombies in "28 Days Later".  Just last week one of them tried to eat my dog.  Dancing in the streets, howling at the moon, talking to no one, screaming at trees, the whole nine.  Just this past Saturday--and middle of the afternoon in broad daylight mind you--the following scene went down at the giant intersection of North Orleans and West Division:

I responded to screaming from outside.  When I looked off the deck there were two men on the north side of Division on the sidewalk.  One in the street.  We'll call them Les Trois Mousquetaires, or maybe just The Three Musketeers, since none of us are cheese-eating surrender monkeys.  The one in the street, Athos, was on a Rascal mobile device, typically used by the handifat, though our protagonist was 130lbs wet and wearing moon boots. The heroine of our tale, Aramis, was standing on the sidewalk making noises that I could only equate to an elephant being put down with a fucking razor blade.  As Aramis was going through various bodily convulsions, constantly hitting himself in the leg and back with his right arm, bending into shapes a contortionist wouldn't dare, and wailing the wail of one of those Iraqi women on TV after an heroic American drone plane mistakenly drops a daisy cutter on her granddaughter's wedding.  Our third Mousquetaires, Porthos was screaming at Aramis for losing his shit in the middle of the street.  Athos could only drive his rascal around in circles, stopping mid-day traffic and crying like a little bitch.  Athos was never one for high-pressure situations.  Aramis had dropped various contraband on the sidewalk during his interpretation of "Black Swan".  Porthos, cool as a cucumber, continued to berate Aramis for cracking (double entendre much?) up as he quickly scooped the contraband from the sidewalk.  From my 6th floor vantage it appeared a bag of drugs, a wallet, a gun and perhaps a paperback companion copy of "For Whom the Bell Tolls".  Porthos the wise then spirited the items west on Division Street as he astutely surmised that uniformed bring-downs of some sort were surely to arrive.  As Porthos made his break Athos gave chase on the Rascal, continuing to shout the shout of the damned and drive in the middle of Division like a snake with a broken back.  Aramis was left to battle his invisible demons alone.  I yelled from the balcony unto Athos and Porthos, "What the fuck happened to all for one and one for all, you assholes?".  But when you are higher than 10 kites and staring a come-down at Cook County Jail in the face, shit breaks down.  Poor Aramis, he fought the good fight and hit himself another 20 times before succumbing to his formless attackers and falling to the sidewalk.  He continued to writhe, flail and wail on the sidewalk as passersby chose either to give wide berth or stand and stare from afar as though they were watching a really despicable act being performed at a sex club in Amsterdam, yet couldn't avert their gaze.  As I left the balcony (mostly due to Aramis being now 90% shielded from my view by a tree branch) I knew the sage wisdom imparted by Rick James was certainly true, "Cocaine is a hell of a drug".

So former Cabrini Green neighborhood crack dealer, this Bud's for you!  How do I sign up for a hit of this magic crack?  It looks fun as shit.  I have no idea why you wouldn't do it???

***Seriously though brah, might want to dial the ether and pcp dosage in your tincture down a notch or two.  People are going to start snapping their own fucking spines trying to escape their buzz.

"Nothing is Fucked Here Dude. Come On, You're Being Very UnDude."

I'm totally kidding.  Everything is fucked.  Rioting in London.  Stock market going down faster than a Thai whore for a c-note.  U.S. credit rating downgraded (sorry, same principles for household financial management apply at the macro level as well).  U.S. Government is basically Milton from Office Space.  We're one more governmental gridlock away from putting their office in the basement and asking them to grab a can of roach spray and start exterminating.  I'd be prouder of my kid if they were a drug dealer or Vivid Video fluffer than a U.S. Congressman or Senator.  Little kids are being murdered in Chicago on a daily basis.  Some brazen asshole walked up to a guy in downtown Chicago on Monday in broad daylight during afternoon rush hour and shot the mutherfucker in the head.  "Nothing is fucked?  NOTHING IS FUCKED?  The goddamn plane has crashed into the mountain!"  And you know what?  Fuck it dude, let's go bowling.  That's what I say.  If you think anything you do is going to have any effect whatever on this clusterfuck, then have at it Hoss.  Fucking rail against shit on Facebook.  Fucking host a dick-licking MoveOn.org party at your house and sniff each other's farts and talk about "Change" all night.    Blame the GOP.  Blame the liberal media.  Blame lack of morals.  Blame Lady Gaga.  Fellate Tom Brokaw by talking about how America's "Greatest Generation" would storm the beach at Wall Street and kick all our asses if only they weren't too old and dead.  Blame the Tea Party (in all seriousness, those fucking losers need to be exterminated like common vermin).  Go vote for one of the two major political parties.  As for me?  I will finish the game.  I'm playing violin on the bow of the Titanic while you throw deck chairs off it.  The ship is going down, "At least I'm enjoyin' the ride..."

Are the Cubs Fucking Serious?

This sums up Cubs baseball better than any mascot or team logo.  The Cubs are sucking at the teet of superior organizations, and are damned lucky to be fed at all.  Luckily for me I'm a Chicago transplant and don't root for these asshats.  And although from north-central Ohio, fortunately I don't root for the Indians either.  When I was but a wee lad an uncle got ahold of me and ingrained a life-long love affair with the Boston Red Sox.  And thank Crom for that.  Incidentally, he hasn't even been my uncle for yonks, but I stuck with the Red Sox.  I'm a better man for it.  I had about two decades of misery before Dave Roberts stole that most glorious of 2nd bases on a crisp Boston Sunday night in October of 2004.  I know loss and frustration, but I also know the joy of watching something you've invested an absolutely embarrassing amount of your total life-span following as though it were the heart rate monitor hooked up to your infant child in NICU, pull through and win.  I've tried to describe Cubs fans to my other non-Cubs fan friends.  It is admiration for having the dedication to suffering, a very respectable sado-masochism if ever I've witnessed it.  But also there underlies Cubs fandom this almost dopey, hokey, happy-go-lucky "Awww, shucks, we'll get 'em next year" mentality.  Even if the conclusion of this season saw them finish 28 games out of first place and their only two good players are lost to free agency prior to "next year".  I have rarely encountered such baseless optimism in the face of constant, tragic failure.  They are sort of like a mental patient who doesn't understand he is mental, so you just nod, smile and say, "Yeah, I know Elvis Pressley is on the Ed Sullivan Show tonight!  How about that?".  Sucking shit is one thing.  Spending tons of money to suck shit is a whole other animal.  The Cubs payroll is the 6th highest in Major League Baseball.  THE SIXTH HIGHEST.  They are currently 16.5 games out of first place and 21 games under .500.  Of the 5 teams which spend more than the Cubs, three of them are the #1, #2, and #3 best teams in baseball right now.  The other two are 2.0 and 4.5 games out of first place in their division, respectively.  What in the fuck is Jim Hendry doing?  Does he even know what he is doing?  I'll answer that question: 44-65, 16.5 games back in the division, while spending the 6th most money in the game.  NO, Jim Hendry hasn't one fucking iota what he is doing.  Of the teams ahead of the Cubs in the division, Cincinnati and Pittsburgh COMBINED don't spend as much as the Cubs.  And the Cubs pay this asshole substantial money to be a fucking train wreck at his job.  This is a serious message to the Cubs: Pay me half what you are paying this assclown for the coming season.  Put me and 3 of my friends in a room for 48 hours with a keg of beer and 20 hits of acid.  We will put together a team for next year which will be no worse than 5th place in the division.

Allison Rosati, Sweetheart, Can We Talk about this Haircut?

Allison, you are a successful news anchor over there at NBC 5.  And Chicago isn't exactly a back-water market.  There are plenty of hosts and anchors on national stations via the Windy City to prove that Chicago is a major gateway to the big time.  And who knows, maybe that is in your forecast?  But if you ever want to make it to the big time, we're going to have to have a very heartfelt and honest, friend-to-friend conversation: You need to take a cold, hard look in the mirror, and decide if this haircut is going to get you there.  I know your husband tells you it looks great every time you get home from Super Cuts.  But you know what, he just wants to fuck.  Frankly, you're lucky they don't send you to a Green Bay, Wisconsin affiliate.  Because this hairdo screams Cheesehead from the rafters.  I'll make this easy for you.  You need to head on over to Michael & Michael Salon on Chicago.  Ask for Mitch.  Dude is a fucking Jedi Knight of hair snipping.  Makes my hair look good, and I don't even have any.  Not to mention I have Charlie Brown's skull.  Therefore I'm highly confident he can do something for you more befitting of someone in your station.  He'll at least bring you into the new millennium.  And if someday down the road 1991 comes walking through that door and you're not ready for him, I'll take the blame.  Life is too short and you are too talented to continue to barrel through it with this hair helmet.  I know it is the path of least resistance to think what worked during the best years of your life will continue to work for the rest of your life.  This is not one of those cases.  If you want to leave work on Friday night and jump back into this haircut along with some faded blue mom jeans, white Payless-bought New Balance tennies, and a woodland critters sweater over a turtle neck, that is your time baby!  But when you are on the air, let's go for a little professionalism.  Deal?  

Chicago Festival Review: Seward Park Crack Fest 2011

This summer festival totally flew under the radar, but it was a smashing success.  What this festival lacked in turnout, concessions, music, kid's entertainment, officialdom, food or beverage, it totally made up for in solid attendance by myriad crackheads.  When I took Scout to the park on Sunday night to sniff at the ground and roll in goose shit, the party was still raging at 9:30.  As far as the eye could see crack heads were dancing by themselves in shadowy corners of the park, singing Michael Jackson diddies out of key, and giving the moon a stern talking-to.  The Jumbos that the Candyman was selling this weekend must have been the shiznit!  There was one couple in between the bushes, on the ground, trying to fight.  It sounded like some lost language had been unearthed; only these two beautiful souls understood it.  Given what I could decipher from contextual clues, it would seem the gentleman had spent the last of the treasure chest on something frivolous, like food, and the young lass was none-too-pleased about how this tangible foodstuff had directly reduced the supply of consumable crack rock.  Some swings were had, but land they did not.  Perhaps I misunderstood, and this was actually some avant-garde theater in the park production of Julius Caesar.  Either way the fight eventually moved into a better lit area where our star-crossed Romeo & Juliet of Freebase continued to fight disjointedly and with unnecessary bodily convulsions until the gentleman began an interpretive dance and quit paying attention to the increasingly agitated young lady.  Sensing that she'd lost her audience, she took her goddamned roller-suitcase and stormed into the middle of traffic in Division street.  As she walked down the center of the street shouting to no one, she left the festival with one last piece of eternal wisdom, "Mutherfucker done put in what they taked out!  Fuck you Sheryl, I telled them mutherfuckers anyway!".  Words which ring true now, and throughout perpetuity my friends.  The festival had been too much for one reveler, seen above having a siesta next to the Seward Park fountain.  And who amongst us has not consumed too much funnel cakes and crack and passed out next to a fountain on a hot summer's night?  Come one, come all to Seward Park Crack Fest 2012, it will not disappoint!

Another Lovely Day Here in Dubai

105 degrees today with 1,000% humidity.  Gorgeous!  Watch out for that sandstorm around midday, wouldn't want sand in your melted ice cream.  Perfect day for nothing.  Scorching hazy sun reflecting off the Persian Gulf cooking your brain right inside your fucking head, like soldiers in Vietnam when we made them wear those steel helmets that heated like a skillet to enhance their experience.  Oh, that isn't the Persian Gulf?  I suppose it is Lake Michigan.  But are we really going to split hairs here?  What is the difference between Lake Michigan and the Persian Gulf right now, other than some U.S. Navy warships cruising around some off-shore rigs protecting Saudi oil interests on our collective tax dime?  Not a fucking thing.  I'm pretty sure that if you wander down to Oak Street Beach today there will be at least a few dipshits in burkas.

One of the positives of a heat wave is that it does a little spring-cleaning of the drug-addicted vagrants.  Their old sweat pants, moon boots, stained parka and woolen cap don't seem to be what the doctor ordered when the mercury shoots for the sun.  But of course I'm kidding(ish), I don't want people to die of heat stroke.  Driving home from Midway airport last night I did see a rather sane-looking chap bent over at the waist with hands on knees, in the absolute dead fucking center of Cicero Ave.  He was shirtless and looking a bit, um, "wild".  He has the right idea.  No better way to beat the heat than to have a Tahoe ram you in the ass at 50mph.  Off to the air-conditioned hospital for you to suck on ice chips.  If anyone sees me shirtless, bobbing and weaving in the middle of Division Street today, you'll know the score.

Not my best effort on this post.  A bit disjointed, marginally funny.  What the fuck do you want?  Not really thinking straight this week.  My body was built for hunting, gathering and warfare on forested plains in northern Europe.  It certainly wasn't meant to scurry up fruit trees in Equatorial Guinea.  Whatever, fuck off.  

Chicago Weather Forecast:

Today's Forecast: It is going to be fucking hot today, with a chance of swamp ass.  Wednesday: Hotter than a freshly-raped fox in a forest fire*.  Sport-wipe necessary when you finally get to your office, as swamp-ass is guaranteed.  Thursday: Hotter than a nun's cunt in the African Marathon.  Pack an additional outfit to change into at the office because Thursday's swamp ass laughs maniacally at your sport wipe.  Friday: Who fucking gives a shit anyway?  Chicago's weather is the biggest bullshit in China.  All extremes, all the time.  Never pleasant and comfortable more than a day at a time.  And what really gives me a red ass is the fact that due to these extremes, the weather dick always gets to say "We've had an average _____________ ".  Yeah, because 4 99's and 26 57's statistically average out to a "Normal" June.  Fuck you Skilling.  As soon as someone calls me on the phone out of the blue and offers me a high paying job in San Diego-despite the fact I've never even looked for a job there-I'll move so fast your mom's head will spin.  What I do have is some random floater Coors Lights in the fridge at home.  If I just merely open one, will that frosty cool train barrel through my condo?  Or do I have to actually acquire some paint and draw a tunnel or other access point for the train first?  I'm unsure of proper protocol. 

*My first ever "real job" after college was at an old-timey publishing company in Boston.  This phrase landed me right in the HR office for some reeducation.  I was a total fish out of water in that job.  Freshly out of state school in Ohio where anything goes, I land in a very prim and proper publishing firm with a ton of private/boarding/girl's school types.  Not a great mix.  Don't get me wrong, many of these people were quite to very cool, and I am friends with several to this day.  However, there were many who wouldn't know a good time or a joke if either walked up and took a shit right on their face.  So I'm in this tiny little office "collating" (which means you are NOT a very important person at the company, given this job is now done by copying machines) a shitload of documents with others in my position level, and a slew of temps.  No circulation in there, and we are shagging ass trying to get ready for the national sales meeting.  Without thinking twice, I drop "It's hotter than a freshly raped fox in a forest fire in here".  Record screeches to a halt.  Crickets chirping.  Tumbleweed blew by.  A look from this one private school chick like I'd just been arrested for kiddie porn or something (and I know it was her that dropped the dime on me, I'll swear that to my grave).  Boom, day later and I'm in the HR office being grilled like I just quit my job, sold my house, grew a long beard, started wearing a long robe and moved to Dearborn, Michigan.  My boy Ron (who was a cool guy, just doing his job) starts up with the "So Zachary, tell me in what context you think rape is funny?" and "Do you condone rape?".  I mean shit, I've heard that phrase a half dozen times while working on a roofing job during the summer in central Ohio.  Nobody said bully to anyone uttering that phrase on the roof, so why is it any different at a stodgy publishing firm in the heart of the pretentious Northeast?  Bullshit in my opinion.  No Ron, I don't condone raping people.  However, I do think the idea of a somehow raped fox (by whom or why? that is part of the awesomeness) racing wildly about in the midst of a forest fire is pretty goddamned funny.  Well, I learned that day what is funny on a roof in the Midwest is not necessarily funny at Simmons or Smith College in Boston, MA.  And now I know, and knowing is half the battle. 

If You're Important and You Know it, Honk Your Horn

Are you driving the speed limit you worthless fucking hick?  HONK!  Are you actually stopping at a Stop sign retard?  HONK!  That light has been green for .000002 seconds, why haven't you laid a patch of rubber and shot off the line like John Force yet you son-of-a-bitching asshole?  HONK HONK HONK!!!  I don't have time for you pieces of hillbilly Wisconsin country-fried shit.  I AM A FUCKING IMPORTANT PERSON!  Where I am going is so astronomically more important than where you are going, that I should have a goddamned missile launcher attached to the hood of my car to blast useless tits such as yourself off the fucking road.  I am going to a fucking showing, do you know what that is moron?  I. Am. A. Real. Estate. Agent.  That is important.  You are taking your kid to a doctor's appointment.  Not important.  This condo hasn't sold in 2 1/2 years and the couple looking at it have a credit score of 400.  Guess what muchacho?  I need to fucking get there 5 minutes ago.  So take your piece of shit Prius and drive it into the fucking Chicago River because I don't have time or the patience to wait for you make a goddamned right turn.  Why are you waiting for those pedestrians???  Fucking run them over!  HONK HONK!!  In case you haven't figured it out yet dipshit, I'm driving a fucking Land Rover.  That means my life is worth shittons more than yours.  It says it right across the front: "Land Rover = Get The Fuck Off The Road".  I need this thing, how else would people know I'm important, besides the honking?  It snows twice yearly, there are no unpaved roads, and the terrain is flatter than a 9 year old girl....so obviously I need a fucking car designed to navigate swamps in the Amazon Basin.  If you had led your local real estate office in condo sales in 2005 you'd fucking understand why I financed this baby 8 years out and have 70K in revolving credit card debt to finance the payments because I've sold 6 condos in the 6 years since.  But instead you slowly but steadily increased your income over time and bought queer-assed used cars that can't even chase down baboons in the Niger Delta.  That is why where I'm going matters, and where you are going is fucking Nowheresville you diseased rhinoceros pizzle.  This is how it works, since your Honda Accord so loudly bespeaks your lack of comprehension skills: Traffic is in my way.  I honk the fucking horn and you see my lobster-red straining neck muscled face stretching towards the window shield and my mouth forming the scream "Fuck you asshole!"  You, and everyone else in front of me, quickly turns to the left or right and makes a tunnel for me to drive through unimpeded.  For your effort I flip you off or give you the both hands up "What the fuck?" as I fly past with house music pumping out of the bitchin' stereo system I also financed.  This is how it is supposed to work when you honk the horn aggressively.  You obviously wouldn't know with your pussy-assed both-hands-on-the-wheel technique, but driving an SUV, drinking a Starbucks, talking on my cell phone, honking my horn AND flipping you off all simultaneously isn't that fucking easy to pull off.  Everyone needs to get it through their thick skulls.  Your automobile, your health, your baby, pedestrians, strollers, bicyclists, mail men, none of these things are as important as where I'm going right now.  Do you think this unnatural orange tan maintains itself mutherfucker?  No, I have a tanning bed appointment in 30 seconds and you are letting an old couple out of a parking lot in front of you.  Jesus Christ, nobody fucking gets it!  This thing gets 12mpg in the city asshole.  I'm keeping the war in Iraq going all by my fucking self.  HONK HONK!!  Wait, why the fuck are you getting out of your car and approaching me?  Oh shit, you want to kick my ass.  Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.  Quit it dude, I have absolutely no ability to defend myself outside of the context of this Land Rover and my horn.  Fuck, I'm out of here.  HONK HONK!!  Get out of my way asshole, I need to get away from this dick who is trying to kick my ass for honking the horn at him because I'm an impatient self-absorbed asshole.  HONNNNKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

I Love Mexicans

If you think that Mexicans should get the fuck out of your country, then you know what? I think you should get the fuck out of your country. Mexicans are out there harvesting the food you are cramming into your fat gullet while you watch Fox News, get pissed off about Mexicans, and gain weight. I attended the U2 concert at Soldier Field in Chicago last night. Great night, good show. Sure Bono is now playing a caricature of himself these days, but he still has high entertainment value. There were three Mexican people in my row, and they were loving the shit out of life. Put a smile on my face every time I looked at them. One guy made the same "Are you getting me a beer?" joke every time I walked past him to use the toilet or get a drink. In between songs he yelled "Helllllooooo Bono, my frrriend!" at the stage. His other mates danced and screamed broken lyrics at the top of their lungs during the particularly energetic songs. Just so happy to be there. It was the same vibe I got during a long run on the morning of July 3rd along the lake front. Mexican families everywhere just kicking the hell out of it. Setting up blankets and barbecues and lawn chairs and tents in the parks and on the beaches. Tank tops and smiles and Virgin Mary amulets everywhere. They didn't have much money and they didn't give a fuck. All they need is pollo on the grill, some corn tortillas, a few cervezas, a soccer ball, a lopsided generic volleyball net with tears in it, and they are fucking good to go for hours. Dudes pushing trundle carts full of frozen shit I've never even heard of. Made my miserable fucking sado-masochistic run tolerable to see how much joy these immigrants were carving out of nothing. And I know, "Half them fuckers ain't even legal!". Guess what, half your fucking drunk potato digging Irish ancestors weren't legal either. And Mayflower redneck xenophobic assholes just like you said they'd ruin the country. And look what happened. St. Patrick's Day kicks so much fucking ass I can't even tell you how much fucking ass it kicks. I don't have the words. Mexicans are out there working their tits off doing labor that fat lazy assed Americans don't want to do (I include myself in this group), while fat lazy Americans bitch about how they are "Takin' our fuckin' jobs!" (I do not include myself in this group). Sure, they have some problems with crime and alcoholism and obese welfare recipients, but tell me what ethnic group-Caucasians included-doesn't have these problems? From the limited interaction I've had with Mexican immigrants while working on construction crews, hanging out with friends who manage bars/restaurants, the dudes who work in the locker room at my gym, and the lawn crew at my building complex, I've found the following: They are, on average, a pretty fun and hard-working lot that enjoys smiling and loves to laugh. So guess what? If given a choice of hanging out with them in a hovel on the outskirts of town with roosters running around the yard, or at your house with Glenn Beck shouting in the background and you pissing and moaning about the country being stolen from you by the evil, conniving wetbacks, I'm drinking Tecates and throwing bones with the Mexicans any day of the week and thrice on Sunday. So all I'm saying, while rambling incoherently for a really long page space, is instead of bitching about the Mexicans you've never introduced yourself to, turn off the fucking Bill O'Reilly (hmmmm O'Reilly, where did your ancestors arrive from???) and download a Rosetta Stone Spanish edition and learn how to say hello to the neighbors who like it or not, are here.

Also, do your fucking homework. We stole half of Mexico in the 1800's, by hook and by crook. Sent our most rabidly anti-social, greedy fucking citizens down there to squat on their land and then pick a fight so we could rape and pillage the shit out of the northern half of their country. Where do you think "Don't Mess With Texas" comes from? Now they're back not with guns and an army, but a lawn mower and dish rag. Fucking deal with it.

I Can't Wait to Not Go to the Taste of Chicago!

I have been waiting, with baited fucking breath, all year, to not set one goddamned foot in the Taste of Chicago. It is going to be the highlight of my summer; avoiding The Taste like it's a Haitian crack whore with a needle habit and a pet monkey that I had unprotected sex with, and keeps calling me asking when we're going on a proper date. Don't get me wrong. Normally I love going to severely overcrowded places serving food on the street when it is 95 degrees and humid with overflowing public shitters and every type of low-rent criminal and social deviant one city has to offer. Typically I'm on that like a fat chick on a Denny's Grand Slam. But I'm sitting this one out. Sure, my air-conditioned condo with food I know the source of and cooked myself may not be as exciting, but I'm going to bed at night much less Hepatitis B'ed than I would if I ventured down to The Taste. And when "Flash Mobs" break out and beat the ever living shit out of some innocent attendee, until someone in the crowd who said "I'm packing my 9mm in case these Flash Mob assholes show up" pulls out their piece and starts firing into the crowd indiscriminately, well unfortunately I'm going to have to hear about that on the 11 o'clock news (Yeah, I know 11 o'clock news went extinct years ago, but I like to show my age). As much fun as it sounds, I'm going to go ahead and stay home this year and squirt hot sauce on my dick instead.