Dear Obama: What the World Needs Now is a GANGSTER

Barack, this is fucking serious.  This is 4th and 19, down 6, with 37 seconds to go in the Super Bowl.  You have before you a unique moment in world history, and you are the quarterback of the best team.  This is your chance to be Churchill laying on top of buildings in London screaming "Fuck you!" at the Waffen S.S. as they rained bombs on the capital, or FDR telling everyone to get fucked while he handled bidness.  The United States just had it's credit rating dropped because everyone with half a dick knows we're all but fucked.  Europe is at the precipice of monumental financial disaster which will result in them fracturing back into the nationalistic aggression which brought us Napoleon, Bismarck, WWI and WWII.  There is a goddamned mob running amok in London for Christ's sake.  We're in the middle of two useless tit wars that are fucking killing us financially and bankrupting us morally.  And the straw that broke the camel's back....a fucking hurricane just waltzed into New York Fucking City and shut down the subway system.  20 years ago a hurricane tries to invade New York City, it probably gets stabbed, a gang-beating minimum.  The world hungers for Mad Max.  America thirsts for Braveheart (Gibson hates playing heroes, doesn't he?).  And who are you giving them?  Fucking Carlton Banks, thats who.  Please, for the love of Crom, snap out of your goddamned "Change" coma and go straight gangstah on all these mutherfuckers right now!!!  Not next month, not after the election, but tomorrow.  You are home from vacation and it is time to put heads to bed.  These political parties, which are barely discernible from one another at this point, are the biggest bullshit in China dude.  Useless fucks, all of them.  No interest in getting anything done, at all.  Nothing but bitching, whining, and blaming each other for the problems they are paid to solve.  If you listen Obama, and listen right now, there is still time to act.  This is what you can, and most certainly should, do:

Drop your pussy-assed Carlton Banks "let's compromise" bullshit that is designed only to get you reelected.  Everyone sees through the ruse, so just let it go.  Drop the suit and tie, and show up to Capitol Hill tomorrow in a Sean Jean sweatceudo and a bandana with a sideways, straight-billed Raiders hat over it, sporting Air Force Ones.  Channel your inner O-Dog from "Menace II Society".  Walk into that Capitol Building with an an entourage blaring the most aggressive Tupac you can find from a boom box, with a fucking gangster lean and yell, "Break yo self bitches, O-Bomb bout to preach!"  Walk up to John Boehner, pull out a gat, and shoot him directly in the orange fucking head.  As an Ohioan, I am deeply embarrassed by this pussy.  He tans, he cries, he is a moron.  No one will lament his necessary death.  I would then recite Clint Eastwood's speech from the brothel at the end of Unforgiven.  Tell everyone in the building that if they don't want to die, to turn around and leave out the back door.  Tell them they are all gonna pay for what they done to Ned.  Turn around and find John Kerry.  Grab him by the collar and pistol-whip him right in the horse face.  Don't even offer an explanation.  Tell him if the next words out of his mouth are not "Whatever you say O-Bomb", he's getting capped.  A pistol-whipping can only improve that mug.  After this business is completed, I'd call Nancy Pelosi out onto center stage.  Make it seem like you are going to say something nice about her.  Then pull out a bottle of Dom, shake it up and start spraying it all over her face.  Shoot the floor around her feet and scream "Dance for us bitch!".  The first person who says something other than "Yessir!", walk up to them and stick the gun in their mouth.  Just start yelling "What the fuck you say bout my momma?!"  Now you've got everyone's attention.  You've left your Kansas behind my friend.  You've shed Carlton Banks and become Denzel Washington in "Man on Fire".  Killing for sport.  Now that you are calling the shots, you've got to make the hard decisions that none of these pussies and sleazebags are willing to make because it might get them unelected.  This is what G-Dubbyah did.  He just did whatever the fuck he wanted.  Unfortunately every decision he made was absolutely terrible and detrimental to the future of the nation and the world.  You've got to reverse all that shit.  Bring everyone home from Iraq and Afghanistan.  Put them to work rebuilding at home.  Trust me, plenty of shit is broken or about to break.  They are going to call you a socialist or say you are acting like a king.  But do you know who else they said that about?  Franklin Delanor Fucking Ballgame Roosevelt, that's who.  Do you think FDR cared?  He was too busy getting more ass than a fucking toilet seat, from a wheel chair mind you.  When times are darkest you do not need your leaders sitting around arguing over who fucked whose boyfriend back in '93 or who stiffed who for a $1,700 lap dance tab at The Titanium Titty in Tampa during the Young Democrats Convention in '01.  They need a warrior, a Kenyan Masai tribesman if you will, to start kicking ass and taking some fucking names.  Who gives a shit if the Tea Party calls you a socialist?  80% of them are racist, and I doubt 20% of them could correctly answer "What is socialism?" on a multiple choice exam, even if the other 3 choices are A) Ocean B) Tree and C) Car.  Just to be safe, I'd have them all rounded up and imprisoned in a labor camp in Nevada somewhere.  The GOP and the Democrats may be useless, but this rag tag army of unemployed, racist, xenophobic, jingoist, uninformed, tax-evading morons are NOT the answer.  I'd gladly trade any 10 of these assholes "guarding" the border for just 1 hardworking Mexican that wants to cross it.

What do you need Obama to make you realize where we are and what is needed?  Opportunity to go down as one of the all time greats is bending over in front of you, with it's skirt hiked up and undies on the floor.  Just. Stick. It. In. Brah.  Crom help us all if you keep pussy-footing around and we end up with some Bachmann'esque dipshit taking over in '13.  Where is the guy who voted against invading Iraq a decade ago?  Fucking find him, and find him fast. 

We're Taking this Pig Global

That's right bitches, What Sucks Now is headed over to the World Wide Web (located in a bunker somewhere on Al Gore's property) in the very near future.  Only problem, some dick hole already owns www.whatsucksnow.com.  And yes I could buy it.  However, it appears it is some Internet squatter scumbag, and honestly I don't want to pay such slime, thus vindicating what they do, even if it is only $100.  So this presents a conundrum.  To be honest, I was never thrilled with the title "What Sucks Now".  It was hastily named because I was creating the blog, and it said "What is the title?".  Well asshole, I hadn't gotten that far.  And on that day, I was so pissed off about that stupid publicity whore Abby Sunderland and her scum family, that I just said "God, she sucks!" and bada bing, bada boom, there's your name.  And for all you Internet historians out there, "Abby Sunderland Sucks" is Blog 1 in the annals of WSN.  So I'm considering a total overhaul here.  That is where readership comes into play.  Anyone with a rad idea, use the little Comment button and make a suggestion.  And when I start making $5.00 per year off of this site, I'll give you $0.00 of it.  Deal?  Done.  Obviously there have to be a few guidelines:

It can't be complicated.  So while www.adamsapplecheckeratabangkokwhorehouse.com is both creative and fucking hilarious, it is a bit too much work. 

Obviously I don't have a clean mouth.  But it has to be clean(ish).  People don't want www.gofuckyourselfasshole.com showing up in the Google search history on their company's computer.  Totally lame, but I guess that is business for you. 

Anybody that responds with anything with the word "midget" in it is banned for life.  Persona non gratis.  You are an Un-Person, ala Lenin when he found out Trotsky had betrayed him. 

Unfortunately www.bigdickdaddyfromcincinnati.com is already taken.  Yes, I checked.  And whoever scooped that one up....savvy move kemosabe. 

My first name is in play.  My last name is not.  I don't want any respectable members of my family to be sullied by such nonsense.  I don't need my little brother to be 4/5 of the way through the interview process only to have the employer ask "Are you related to this asshole?"

I've considered a Conan the Barbarian related theme, such as www.cromscorner.com, www.valorpleasescrom.com or www.riddleofsteel.com.  And I think those are viable.  My only concern is that the site become heavily trafficked by comic book nerds who quickly click away the first time there is a reference to sex or drinking a beer. 

Come on Irene, I Swear (Well He Means) At This Moment You Mean Everything

Ahhhhh, run, fuck, hide, shit, Irene's coming!!!  Hahahaha.  You know who isn't scared?  North Cacalaca, that's who.  You see Andrew Jackson blinking over there?  Fuck no.  One of North Carolina's all time badasses is probably going to watch this hurricane blow through while sitting on a pier, then torch a Seminole village in Florida on his way to stealing the other half of Mexico.  Do you think Dale Earnhardt is worried about this hurricane?  If Dale saw this Nancy pants hurricane riding his bumper he'd flash one quick glance of pure Moustache Intimidation in his rear view, and that would be the end of that.  I'm not from North Carolina.  I don't live in North Carolina.  But I have spent a fair amount of time there and I know a number of their citizens.  And this is what I can guarangoddamntee you: They aren't one bit scared of some pussy-assed hurricane.  The only concern this hurricane brings is the status of the car races on Sunday.  That is it.  Are they gonna fuckin' race on Sunday?  Listen, this isn't a bunch of transient, pansy Floridians boarding up their condos and running around in circles shitting their pants, not realizing that when you live on a giant schlong jutting out into two bodies of water, you might get fucked.  Hard.  North Carolinians are going to pick up their shit, put it back in their garage, pound a couple of nails, nail a Salem, flush it down with a Busch heavy, and move the fuck on.  You think Michael Jordan is cowering behind some plywood?  Hell no.  He uses hurricanes to get a cut-rate on a motel room to bang some hoochies.  Petey Pablo is going to twist a shirt around his head and spin it like a helicopter on the beach and just dare Irene to do something about it: This one's for North Carolina, C'mon and raise up..... 

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.     

The Scout Chronicles: I Prefer to Shit on Grass

Or perhaps on some mulch.  Preferably fresh mulch with that heavy forest scent that I love.  I just like the way the dump sounds when it hits the earth.  I don't like the way my dump sounds when it lands on concrete.  A very unnatural "thwack" that is not pleasing to Scout's ears.  Besides, it is so much more civilized to shit in the lawn or the mulch.  It is more difficult for mom and dad to pick out of the grass or mulch than it is the sidewalk.  I like the feeling of making them work harder to be my bitch.  It makes Scout feel like a big man; a 150lb English Mastiff, or maybe a Greyhound.  Those dogs you see shitting on the concrete sidewalk, they are low-bred.  I would not sniff asses with such dogs because it would be beneath me.  Sure, if I've licked the bottom of too many of dad's empty scotch glasses, I might be seen doing the old in-out, in-out, with one of the peasant bitches, but that is just the dog in me.  I would not take such a bitch on a proper date to the park or the dumpster behind Dominick's.  I don't want to be seen in such society.  Sometimes this requires, in a tight spot, for the Scoutmeister to start tugging at the leash in a panicked manner until I find an elevated garden on the periphery of someone's property on which to shit.  But I'd rather be seen panic-pulling a leash than shitting on the sidewalk like a commoner.  Yes, you can accurately point out that given Scout's half Golden Retriever, half Poodle heritage, that I am technically a mutt.  But after this point is made, you could then suck a bag of dicks.  And you know why?  Because I'm hot.  And hot trumps racial purity any day of the week and twice on Sunday.  The Scoutmeister does not eat Bil Jac sausage treats like some moat-digger's hound.  Scout eats dried organic Farmer's Market sweet potato treats in the manor house, next to a roaring fire.  And you don't excrete this sort of upper echelon waste on a fucking sidewalk.  You do it on the grass.  Keep it really nice and civilized.       

It's a CELEBRATION Bitches!!!

I got my double beer helmet, my beer bong, my bong bong, my money boxers, pocket full 'o Magnums, rohypnol, "Who Farted?" t-shirt, and you fucking well know I pre-gamed!  Wait, what the fuck are we celebrating?  I'll tell you what we're celebrating: The official 10,000th page view of What Sucks Now.  You're goddamned right son, 10,000 page hits and counting (and I waited to post this until we were safely past 10,000 enough to ensure that I wasn't counting my own page views).  I still remember when this was a rinky dink little blog that no one read.  And now it is a rinky dink blog that a few, but not many, more people read.  How exciting!  I've decided, in honor of this momentous occasion, to open up the floor for questions from the readers to ask our reclusive blogger.  So without further pomp and circumstance:

Q: Why do you write this blog?
A: Because I'm fucking awesome.  Next question.

Q: How much money do you make from writing this blog?
A: Not one red fucking cent.  Isn't that brilliant.  I spend hours of free time to entertain barely anyone, and I do it pro bono.  Isn't that genius???

Q: Why do you piss away some of the best years of your life chasing money in an industry you have no skill set for, and yet not make much money, when you could do something you love and are proficient at and still not make much money?
A: That is a valid question, and here is the answer: Go fuck yourself.

Q: Would you have ever launched this non-profit, time-suck of a blog, without the persistent, always positive encouragement of your pal Andi?
A: More than likely not.  I would have continued to labor through angst-filled internal dialogues in the shower and silent tirades on the bus each day until eventually I had an early stroke due to the lack of outlet for my shitty attitude.  So Andi, this Bud Light Lime's for you!

Q: How does your family feel about you tossing away valuable time each week writing to dead air?
A: Oddly, my wife is all for it.  She laughs at child molester and fart humor.  We probably wouldn't be married if she didn't.  Luckily my daughter isn't old enough yet to realize how sad it is, and know that she isn't getting a BMW for her Sweet 16 party.  Scout is an attention whore, and so long as I'm keeping him in lights, he'll abide.

Q: Are you like the first person in the world to come up with the idea to start a blog?
A: Yes, but like all pioneers languishing in obscurity, some imitator assholes end up with all the glory.

Q: Do you mostly write drunk?
A: Not nearly as often as you think.

Will we ever get to 20,000 page hits, or am I going to focus my energy on something that actually earns money for my family?  Who knows, with an entrepreneurial mind like this, anything is possible.  For now, thanks for reading.   

Movie Review: "Soul Surfer" Gets 4 1/2 Stars

Out of 100,000,000 stars.  The absolute worst movies get 1 star.  The best movies get 100,000,000 stars.  I give this movie 4 1/2 stars. I guess I'm not the target audience.  I'm not sure who is the target audience--maybe really, really, really fucking lame people.  What is amazing about this "film" is how quickly you end up rooting for the shark.  My biggest disappointment was that the shark never came back and killed everyone.  It was the only chance of saving the movie.  And please tell me, what in Sam Holy Hell is Dennis Quaid doing?  He is on heroin, right?  Dennis Quaid has to be feeding a silverback gorilla of a heroin addiction.  It is the only way to explain why he continues to agree to these powerfully shitty movies.  It can't be that he reads the script and says, "Sign me up!".  Dennis, we can get you the help you need.  But the first step is to recognize that you need help.  There was at least one winner in this movie--Helen Hunt's body.  Way to keep it together Helen.  Obviously your career is fucked if you are starring in this movie and you're serious about it.  But at least you've taken care of what you can control.  Kudos for that.  As far as the biggest loser in this movie--and it isn't Dennis Quaid because he can't control himself or this path of unwatchable Disneyesque movies he's starring in because he is a known commodity--is undoubtedly Carrie Underwood.  What a virtuoso performance!  Wait, does "virtuoso" mean "A performance so utterly horrifying that you grabbed a poker from your log fire and immediately smote your own eyes out and could never experience a Carrie Underwood generated boner again in your life"?  If so, then this was a virtuoso performance.  Please, for the love of credibility, can we all agree that Carrie is never in another movie so long as she lives.  Jenna Jameson could have given a far more believable effort.  You have to respect that her Christian Crusader gang she was in charge of maintained that the protagonist's arm being ripped off by a shark was "Part of God's plan".  I have never, and I will never understand this line of reasoning.  Why would God make something horrifically awful happen to you, in order for some other result down the road?  Is he that sadistic?  Is he the guy from "Saw"?  If I was trying to do some big things in my life, and hired a career coach, and he said "First step, we need to paint your arm with chum and have you stick it in this tank full of bull sharks.  After this, we'll change the world, I promise."  I would tell that guy to get fucked so fast you wouldn't even see it.  How can you fall for this shit?  "God needed me to have my spine severed in a freak muskie fishing accident so that I could then see my purpose in life, which is to teach disabled children how to fish."  Makes perfect fucking sense, roll with it brah.  But back to my point...Carrie Underwood, just focus on being cute and performing terrible music.  You couldn't act your way out of a Mary Kate and Ashley film. 

China, Fucking Step Your Game Up

One of the hot news items of the day is the huge bench clearing brawl that the Georgetown Hoyas got into yesterday with the Bayi Rockets in China.  The Rockets are a professional basketball team in China.  The Hoyas are on an exhibition tour of China, playing basketball games along the way as some sort of bullshit culture sharing hippy drum circle time waste circle jerk.  I have watched the video of the brawl about a dozen times now.  I'm really not sure who is to blame for instigating it, and frankly I could fucking care less.  Here is the major problem I have with this brawl that one of my favorite basketball teams, the Hoyas, got into with a bunch of Chinese thugs: Not a single solitary kung fu move in the entire brawl.  Not one.  What is the point of fighting, China, if you aren't going to use kung fu?  Do you think the French would get into a brawl without running around in a circle flapping their arms and screaming like little girls before surrendering?  Hell no.  So why wouldn't you use your competitive advantage?  You know who really lost in this fight?  The fans.  They are sitting there just waiting for their countrymen to show these black American men the crouching tiger AND the hidden dragon.  Instead it is all disjointed haymakers and flailing around on the ground.  The party bosses back in Beijing are not going to like this one fucking bit, you can count on that.  Going to sentence all those pussies to 5 years hard labor in a Mongolian prison camp and make them watch Bruce Lee movies every fucking night.  Bayi Rockets, you shamed an entire nation today.    

Be Very Careful if Going to Watch the Conan The Barbarian Remake

If you are headed to the theatre this weekend to watch this coathanger abortion of a remake of the classic Arnold-led Conan The Barbarian, you need to be prepared for the possibility that something really horrible is going to befall you.  Theater burning down, mountain dropped on the theater, shitload of poisonous snakes charging into the theater, warriors on horses running in to cut your heads off, I really don't know, sky's the limit.  This diseased rhinoceros pizzle of a remake does not, under any conceivable circumstances, please Crom.  In fact, Crom is so fucking displeased by this shitshow, that I'm pretty sure he is sitting in his mountain kingdom cooking up some really unpleasant outcomes for people who, for reasons beyond me, would want to go and watch this trainwreck.  So if you want to remake the greatest movie of all time and embarrass yourself, fine.  And if you want to pay $11 to view it, fine.  But don't expect Crom to sit there with his dick in his hand, just letting it happen. 

Don't Sleep On Vietnam

As previously noted, I'm kind of a big deal in Slovenia.  Apparently the Vietnamese read about this, and they are fucking PISSED.  Since my glowing report on Slovenia and the copious amount of fucking ass they kick in every which way but loose (and also loose.  if anyone is loose, it is the Slovenians, bet your bottom fucking dollar), it would seem the Vietnamese have decided to wage a little viewing war with Slovenia.  They now stand even-Steven at 12 page views all time.  This is exciting folks.  It appears that Vietnam has fully recovered from the clusterfuck war America waged there for a decade and is now flexing its economic Internet muscle.  The buzz this international war is generating on the Internet is palpable.  Google had to shut down its server hub and throw some bricks of dry ice in there and let shit cool down.  It was like in "Christmas Vacation" when Clark finally is able to illuminate the lights on the house, and they have to manually shut down the grid in Chicago and switch over to the emergency circuit.  The one Internet cafe in Hanoi had a line around the block of 11 people waiting for the first guy to get done with the computer so they too could start pounding What Sucks Now.  Global commodity markets were roiling as Vietnamese rice, as well as conical straw hat production, virtually ground to a halt.  I've already been asked to travel to Vietnam and begin a tour of the country via the Ho Chi Minh Trail, as we attempt to bridge the divide between our two cultures.  My black pajamas are packed bitches.  You can choose to willfully ignore Vietnam if you wish, but at your own peril.  Vietnam, lets fucking rock.     

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..."

Apparently My Little Brother has Never Seen "Point Break". How Do You Address a Situation Like That?

He is too old and too big to challenge to a fight over it.  I guess I could attack him with a baseball bat or a wrench or a sock filled with marbles or something.  Mostly I'm just sick to my stomach.  Obviously I failed as an older brother and mentor.  How did a kid who grew up in Central Ohio as, and remains so, a huge Ohio State Buckeyes fan...not know that former OSU quarterback Johnny Utah joined the FBI and broke up a surfing brotherhood who also robbed banks?  I mean the fucking guy beat SC in the Rose Bowl for Christ's sake.  Where the fuck you been bro?!?!?!?!  I'd almost rather he was a 27 year old virgin than a 27 year old who has never even heard of Point Break.  Don't say that shit out loud dude, fucking embarrassing.  If anyone talks about it, just memorize a line and pretend you know what you are talking about.  Someone says, "When was the last time you saw Point Break?", just respond, "If you want the ultimate, you've got to be willing to pay the ultimate price".  No one will question you.   

Some Famous Asshole Needs to Start Wearing Skirts

And do it stat.  Been hotter than Texas asphalt in Joo-lie all summer and I've still got a pants crotch stuffed all up in my gear.  Yeah shorts are alright, but skirts are the cat's ass.  I wore a skirt once upon a time in college, for Halloween in Athens, Ohio.  Always a raucous affair.  Per usual I'd drank most of my disposable income by the end of the month, and at this particular time I lived in a house with 4 birds.  That did not last long, as men and women are not meant to live with one another.  At least not until they are ready to be miserable the rest of their days and thus get married.  But given my current lack of funding for a costume and the convenience of living with aforementioned birds, I had them dress me up as a bird myself.  I have to be honest with you, I was pretty fucking hot.  I was repeatedly hit on by this completely pissed Athens townie while at Pawpurr's, while his just slightly less pissed friends unsuccessfully tried to convince him I was a dude.  I had to tell him, "Listen, I'm not some dime store whore you bend over in the toilet.  You want under this skirt, you've got to take me to Applebee's and a movie, Don Juan."  He eventually fell on the floor and broke 2 of his remaining 7 teeth, which allowed me to pursue my buzz and realize the liberating effect of a breeze blowing right up your ass.  Outstanding!  I have no idea when or why men foolishly cast away their loin cloths and their kilts for confining pants.  If it were socially acceptable for men to rock skirts or kilts or what-have-you, I'd very quickly jump this bandwagon.  My uncle Charlie boldly adorned himself in Blackwatch kilt for my own wedding.  Those who weren't familiar with Charlie wondered quietly who the weirdo in a plaid skirt was, but as is Charlie's custom, he didn't give 1/2 a fuck.  I respected the shit out of it.  Unfortunately for me, I was cursed with giving a fuck, and as such I need to call upon Brad Pitt, George Clooney, that asshat Ashton Kutcher, or ideally Justin Timberlake to start sporting one around Beverly Hills.  As soon as that shit hit TMZ and Entertainment Tonight, yours truly would be emboldened to follow suit.  I've been jealous all summer when I see a woman in a summery dress and I know that her crotch is getting all sorts of oxygen that mine direly lacks.  I obviously wouldn't do something suicidal and wear it in the Bible Belt or to a county fair, where I would have to answer the question, "Hey faggot!  Are you some kinda faggot or somethin'?" until I eventually was relieved of my teeth and possibly tethered to the back of a pickup truck for a little scenic tour of the back roads.  If JT reads this blog, and I've no reason to think he doesn't, then get on it fucker.  My ass is sweaty.

The Debt Ceiling Debate Explained for the Non-Child Molesting Politician Segment of the Population

It may seem complicated, but it isn't.  For anyone who has been unsuccessfully trying to avoid seeing these Washington fucktards playing dick-slap with each other over this recent hot-button issue, and not really grasping what is going on, this post is for you.  And don't feel bad that you don't get it.  It isn't you--it's them.  If you take away anything from this article, it should be that you've voted tits, on a bull, into government.  Here is the main problem, in a nutshell:

The United States was drunk as shit at an outdoor music festival.  It was hot as all fuck, and all the U.S. brought to wear was a tank top and shorts.  There was a big tent at the festival where shifty fucks on cocaine and failure were giving away "free" fisherman's caps and little water bottles with miniature fan attachments that blew a mist onto your face.  So the U.S. did what any responsible drunk person would do, and signed up for a Visa, a Master Card, an Amex, a Diner's Club, and yes, even a Discover Card.  Then when the U.S. woke up hungover the next day, they went to the mall to make themselves feel better.  They bought some jeans and a fall jacket and some perfume and a Coach purse and some Manolo Blahniks and got a mani-pedi.  That night they treated their friends to dinner and drinks, then hit the strip clubs and went wild in the champagne room.  Later on they ended up at Suzy Kim's Massage Parlor and since it was on the plastic, everyone answered "Happy Ending" when one of Suzy's minions asked "So whah airse ya wan baby?".  Some time went by and all seemed well.  They continued to shop online and eat dinners they couldn't afford, all the while making the minimum payments on the credit cards.  Then the housing market rationalized and suddenly they weren't selling 97 mortgages each month, and income began to dry up.  Suddenly the minimum credit card payments became their entire disposable income.  And guess what, next month money in is going to be < money out, and they can't meet the minimum payment on the revolving credit card debt anymore.  What to do??????

And here is what they do:

They call a huge circle-jerk party with all their most degenerate, lying, cheating, stealing, molesting, DUI'ing, racketeering, dick pic texting, intern-raping, sexual harassing, cross-dressing friends and do the most responsible, fiscally sound thing they can think of.....open up a new credit card to pay the minimum monthly balances on all the other credit cards, at the very handsome APR of 39.99%.

And that folks, is all she wrote.  We all have a line-blowing friend with a blow-out haircut that is doing the same, and it is no different with the U.S. Government.  I'm not passing any judgment on the decision to open the new credit card.  It is either file bankruptcy now with Peter Francis Geraci, or file bankruptcy later with one of PFG's esteemed colleagues after Peter Francis Geraci tragically dies in a Red Roof Inn under a highway overpass when a game of erotic asphyxiation with a prostitute goes awry.  It is only a matter of delaying the inevitable.  Just like when Bush & Bros brought us the bailout that has (as I predicted before he even won the election) now been blamed entirely on the Black Guy who had nothing to do with it.  I guess there is a chance our 4th and 88 with 0:02 on the clock Hail Mary hook and lateral play somehow goes Stanford vs. Cal and we avoid having to call the debt consolidation 1-800 number at 2 a.m. with an empty bottle of scotch next to our sofa and an aborted straight-razor cut on our wrist.  I mean why not?  Anything is possible, with God.  And once the Tea Party comes to power, we're going to have a straight flush to the God.  

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.

Internet "Security Checks" Suck

I don't get it.  Like if your cpu is hacked, and someone is trying to buy some tickets to a monster truck rally on Ticketmaster, or post the blog you just wrote to your Facebook page, this is going to stop them dead in their tracks?  Are you telling me that if some computer programmer cum internet wizard has the skills to intercept your internet session, they are going to see this and scream, "Fuck!  I can't read!  Or type!"  And the words/symbols they use....are you fucking kidding me?  Our example to the left is actually an outlier in that it comes within a mile of rational.  I guess I understand a Gnarled Ambassador.  I'm pretty sure when Jimmy Carter sent his drunk redneck brother to Africa to represent America, it was as a "Gnarled Ambassador".  However, much more frequently the letters run together and appear so faded and hazy, that you have to make a best efforts guess at what the hell it actually says.  Yesterday afternoon was my breaking point.  I promise you I am not making this up.....There was a barely legible nonsensical word on the left, which is par for the course.  However, on the right were Chinese language characters.  And don't anyone ask, "Was it Mandarin or Cantonese?", because I don't fucking know.  Well guess what Internet, I think I'll go with "Try different words", because last I checked my Mac which I purchased here in the United States, DOESN'T HAVE FUCKING CHINESE CHARACTERS ON IT.  Who knows, it probably does contain a program whereby you can type in Chinese, but given there are about 5,000+ characters in their language, I might have to clear up my schedule for a few days to sort through them all to match with the Security Check.  And I sure as shit am not going to "Try an audio captcha", not now, not fucking ever.  What the shit is an audio captcha?  These programming nerds need to be put in their place, stat.  Quit making up bullshit words like captcha and just call it something that makes sense to those living outside The Matrix, like "audio recording".  Seriously, fuck The Matrix for emboldening these assholes.  Who knows, maybe this was an actual joke, and a couple of dudes named Kushbandalianapoor and Zhiang Qian wearing Teva sandals and navy blue dress socks under their desks in Silicon Valley were watching me get meat-head pissed at a computer through my laptop's camera and IM'ing laughter emoticons to one another, even though they sit next to each other and have no divider wall.  I'm going to laugh my ass off when the Tea Party starts WW III and after the armageddon these dickholes are all back in their mom's basement on public assistance.  Gnarled Ambassador....I'll give you Gnarled Ambassador!      

I Can Do Without the Monthly Tornado Siren Check

My 4 month old baby is sleeping, please fuck off.  Who cares anyway?  You think that siren is going to have any effect whatever on the metric tonnage of brick and concrete cascading down upon your hunkering, about to be crushed into oblivion body in the parking garage?  No.  The anticipation of death is worse than death itself (though slightly altered, credit to Publilius Syrus, 1st century BC).  So spare me and my previously sleeping daughter the useless siren.  I like my death one way and one way only....completely shocking.  Just turn my head at the last second to see a tornado reach through my window and terminate my command, with prejudice.

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!

The "Go The Fuck To Sleep" Guy is Just Cramming it in my Ass

I coulda fuckin' done that.  Yep, gonna be the asshole that looks at something someone else has already done, and then say I could have done it.  You may say that is bitter or disingenuous, or whatever the fuck you want to say.  But deep down in places you don't want to talk about you need me to say shit like that.  You need some salty asshole who is worth $40 bucks to bitch about people who are worth $40 million bucks and claim he could have done what they did, only a cunt hair better than they actually did it.  So here you are, I'm saying it: "I could have written that book, and it would have been more irreverent and funnier".  And because it was more irreverent it would have never worked and like 14 of my asshole frat buddies would have said it was the funniest fuckin' thing since that hooker we accidentally decapitated on Spring Break, but it wouldn't have even sniffed the dirty used condoms in the dumpster behind the publishing house that refused to read the piece of shit.  And that is why Adam Mansbach is lighting his cigars with $50's right now, and I'm sucking hind tit writing pro bono for the fucking Internet.     So what do you want me to write?  CPR manual with transvestite heroin addicts instead of dummies?  Coffee table book about a primitive hierarchical monkey society predicated upon butt-fucking?  Name it fuckers, I'm full of shit and ready to start stackin' that paper.