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 very, VERY 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 NYC....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. 

It Was God's Plan for Me to get Fucked Up on Christmas Eve Eve

I bear absolutely no responsibility for my raging hangover on Christmas Eve.  If you were offended by it, then talk to the big guy upstairs.  "Why would you want to be hungover and borderline ill for your daughter's first Christmas Eve at Grandma's house?".  Because God wanted it that way is my answer.  If God didn't want me to be hungover all day Saturday, then why did he(she....but not he-she, though if that is what it is, then I guess that is cool) insist on me drinking heavy beer in the evening, followed by Islay Scotch all night?  Riddle me that, Batman.  If it is God's plan for the Denver Broncos to go on a 5 game winning streak, for your aunt Penny to meet her soul mate (aka 4th husband) Lenny on match.com, and if it is all part of the Lord's Divine Plan that your kid have spinal bifida, then I guarangoddamntee you that Yahweh drew it up on his X's and O's board that I was to get Native American at a land negotiation drunk on December 23rd.  I would take responsibility for my actions if only I was actually guiding myself through this so-called "life".  But I'm not.  This is God's plan baby, and I'm just along for the ride.  Fuck free will.  Listen, God laid before me a fantastic day of exploring a quaint little town in Central Ohio, and a bar with a highly respectable beer list in said town.  God then guided our sleigh back to my parents' house, where God had the foresight to send me earlier in the morning to a local market to acquire numerous bottles of excellent ale.  God put my young child to slumber and brought to my parents' home excellent friends.  God also placed in the cupboard an excellent bottle of Ardbeg Uigeadail Islay Scotch.  God then ignited a lovely roaring fire in a woodsy setting with a very comfortable sofa on which to lounge.  Now you tell me Johnny Teetotaler....What the fuck was I supposed to do?  Was I to walk up to the man God himself, point at something in the sky with alarm, and then while his attention was diverted upward, swat him as hard as I could in the ball sack with the back of my hand?  Maybe you would bag God, buy I sure as shit am not.  So I did what the Lord intended and got shitfaced.  At least I stumbled--at some point--to bed.  Other players in God's plan for Zach's December 23rd apparently "fell asleep" on the sofa and in a chair, only to be discovered by the matriarch at 3am as Bluegrass was still being broadcast over the stereo from Heaven.  Thankfully for me, God did not want me to have a stiff neck on Christmas Eve.  Only a sour stomach, body-rattling belches, a throbbing skull and constant feeling of being underwater all day. 

I'm Scotch-Irish.  What the fuck do you want from me?   

Terry Thompson, Hope You Read Dante's "Inferno", You Asshole

Because you are going straight to the 7th Level.  You are not going to pass GO, you will not collect $200.  You are going to be skull-fucked in an eternal hell fire.  You cowardly, putrid, diseased rhinoceros pizzle.  I was so saddened, and I mean like end of Old Yeller saddened, when I found out you successfully killed yourself.  I'd envisioned you being raped savagely and repeatedly by grizzly bears and lions before one of them dealt the death blow to your jugular.  But alas you are nothing but a selfish cunt who has destroyed 4 dozen wild animals that never did shit to you.  I want to rail against Sheriff Lutz and his deputies who killed most of the animals, but I wasn't there.  I doubt a contingency plan was in place for what to do if you encounter 50 exotic wild predators in rural Ohio.  I'm pretty certain that the first responders with the assault rifles were like little kids on Christmas morning when they found out they could indiscriminately kill a shitload of big game animals that would otherwise require them to pay about $500,000 and go to either British Columbia or Africa.  But I wasn't sitting there with them in the rain staring down a grizzly bear, so I'll refrain from harping on this point.  I wish calls could have been made while the 25 animals still on the site were just hanging out next to their cages to see how long it would take for an appropriate response team to arrive and deal with them.  But again, I am neither charged with protecting the human citizenry of Zanesville nor was I in a Mexican staring contest with a lion.  Fault lies with the state of Ohio for allowing people to keep exotic pets, and with Terry Thompson, the raging fuckface of the year who is too big a pussy to face the music.  If you were really an animal "rescuer", then I'm quite certain you would not have released all these animals into their certain doom before you canceled yourself.  And I'm pretty sure you were hoping they took a few humans down along the way.  The only good news to come out of this sad story is that you are fucking dead and no one is going to have to deal with your loser ass ever again.  Rest In whatever the opposite of Peace is.  Dick.

I like animals more than humans, and it isn't a close contest.  If a golden retriever and some dude I don't know are both about to wash over Niagara Falls, and I have only one stick to extend and save one of them....well, lets just say some family is going to be really happy to get their dog back. 

Tasting Notes: Rockmill Brewery's "Saison"

It was the type of autumn day that a man must live to know that he was there.  He can view it in a Van Gogh painting, the "Wheat Stacks with Reaper", and many of the like.  But he'll never truly understand unless he takes the leather-handled reaper into his own two hands and slashes at field upon endless fields of early autumn wheat.  As I, Jean Luc and my eternal friend, Pierre, retired from the fields on this particular day, having reaped harvest wheat from before sun-up until late in the majestic purple-hued dusk, we stopped at our steady haunt, the Libertine, for sustenance.  By this time the staff at the Libertine knew our order better than ourselves, and within mere seconds there stood at our table a plate of meats, cheeses, baguette and most importantly a tall pot of the only beer capable of standing up to such a day of rich, rewarding labor: Rockmill Brewery's "Saison".  As I took my first deep, long draught of Rockmill's Saison I lived anew my day of laboring in the fields.  It was the autumn day of dreams, with an unbroken sky of breath-stealing blue and warm, though not hot, sun to keep my neck and hands from requiring cover.  As Pierre backhanded the crisp, hoppy froth of Rockmill Saison from his own mouth he reminded me of why we were here, in a backwater village west of Charleville Mezieres, to wile away our days in the fields as hired laborers.  Pierre and I were not born to the fields as all of those noble, crooked-backed villagers we now sought refuge in the company of.  We met at university many years ago, our friendship forged over debates about who was the greatest philosopher, Sartre or Nietzsche, of Dumas's masterpieces, and of the folly of Napoleon attacking the Russian winter.  Those early days were spent with forgettable though affordable beers of the city.  None truly satiated a man's spirit like Rockmill Saison.  Whether it was the misplaced energy of youth or the poorly-crafted beers we consumed like so many empty-headed and silly-hearted coeds (i.e. chicks we banged), Pierre and I found ourselves in soul-crushing positions as government workers, on the pension fast-track.  It was the best of times, and it was the worst of times.  Though we seemed to be sailing through life with good friends, comely wenches, and plenty of ales, we knew something was missing.  On a Saturday trip into the countryside to make sport of quail, a local boy served us our first blessed pot of Rockmill Saison.  As the sparse but delicious brew began to course through our veins we felt alive for the first time.  Its golden hops demanded we surrender our trite and meaningless existence, trading it all for the honor and discipline of a life in the sun and the fields.  And so it was that we sold our apartments in the St. Germain/Luxembourg district of Paris and took a loft above a barn in this quintessential northern France farming community.  We require little but air, honest work, the smile of a farm maiden, and of course shitloads of Rockmill Saison.  It is the wellspring from which our spiritual awakening flows.  Without Rockmill Saison it would be as though we never were. 

I really don't know if the above story is true.  Once when I was in college a guy named Lucien from one of the Baltic republics, sinister looking little scamp with a waxed moustache and greasy trousers, saw me coming out of the library early of a Friday evening on a holiday weekend.  He asked me if "You want we make go to discotheque?".  After politely refusing, he then recommended I take this small piece of paper with a Degas painting on it upon my tongue.  Given that I am not the type of person who turns someone down twice, I placed the small square on my tongue and bid Lucien g'day.  I had to run back into the library before it closed to retrieve the keys I left on a study table.  That is the last thing I remember.  When building security found me on Tuesday morning I was in the French Literature section lying upon a pile of books saturated with urine.  I could quote entire Moliere plays and I was wearing a beret fashioned from Friday's copy of the school newspaper.  But that is neither here nor there my friends.  The point is that I recently drank my bottle of Rockmill Brewery Saison.  I must divulge the following before I continue: I really don't care that much for Saisons.  I don't dislike them, but they are certainly not my favorite.  That being said, this Saison is kicking ass and taking names.  It is refreshing, it is delicious, and chicks dig it.  I don't possess the requisite bullshit to discuss beer in all the preferred beer-nerd nomenclature and I'm not sure I understand how to quaff shit.  As stated Saisons are not my thing per se, but this one is "right", and I know enough to acknowledge that.  I would liken it to your first french kiss.  You may not know what you are doing or what you are looking for, and you soon realize you are licking a soppy sponge that may or may not taste like cigarettes and Jolly Ranchers.....but yet it is still right.  You know enough to know that.  If this Saison is enough to make my mouth ecstatic, then I'm confident it will taste ball-rattlingly good to seasoned Saison fans.     

If you take nothing else from these tasting notes, you should take the following: Cheese-eating surrender monkey French everywhere should be quaking in their stockings.  Queue up the Toby fucking Keith, because Rockmill gives us reason anew "to be prowwwd ta be an Meriken..."  You frolicking little frogs cannot even out-Saison us anymore.  This could be the 1976 Judgment of Paris all over again, only this time an outfit from southeast Ohio is going to take home the gold.  You heard me right fuckers, "southeast Ohio".  At least when you are losing to California you can take solace in the fact that California is pretty fucking cool, and Jerry Lewis probably hangs out there.  Not so much with Ohio.  And this isn't Cleveland, Cincinnati, or even Columbus.  This is Lancaster, Jack.  If this Saison wants to come and storm the beach at Normandy, it will.  Fair warning.