Missed Opportunity

I have been handed a golden opportunity to buy some jeans with a ton of shit on the pockets, and instead of grasping the moment, I've stood idly by with my dick in my hand as bolder men understood full well that they had a chance to become a party of history, rather than watch it happen. Today I realized the ship has officially sailed. I can't go out and buy a pair of jeans today with a dragon on the pocket and pretend like I've been on the trend since inception. I just can't--they'll all know I'm a poseur. It has come full circle when you are in line at a lunch spot and you see several guys with dry-cleaned dress shirts tucked into pockets with a giant cursive "R" and metallic studs, or colorful dragons, and sometimes flap pockets with snaps. You sit there with your bullshit ass jeans totally devoid of pocket artwork and know that you are watching life as they are living it. And it makes you sad. On your deathbed you will not be able to smile as you recall the time you walked into that house party with your hair blown the fuck out and your multi-colored wave design back denim pockets POPPIN'. You will never know the confidence that comes from crushing Jager bombs with stitched horseshoes larger than your hand emblazoned on your ass. When a woman you've just had anonymous sex with looks at her bedroom floor and sees your pathetic jeans with maybe one measly stripe of same-colored lameness across the pockets, she'll know that just like in her pursuit to make her father proud just one single, solitary fucking time in her life...she's once again failed. Because in life there are great men with a Fleur-de-lis or crossed pistols and roses on their jean pockets. But under these great men there must always be meek, spineless men like me with pockets of indistinction. It makes me weep for my family. They deserve better.

People Standing up on Public Transit are Dog Shit on the Heel of Society

If you picked Chicago up and moved it to India, the people who are standing upright on public transit buses and trains would be the lowest form of scum in the Caste System, the "Untouchables". If you don't have a seat on public transit, you may as well be a black person in antebellum South Carolina, because you don't have a single fucking right in the world. Everyone sitting down hates you. And I don't mean "doesn't like you", but "fucking hates your sorry ass". They don't want you to touch them. They don't want you to breathe on them. They don't want you anywhere near their space. They will glare at you like a dog that just shit on the floor in front of company if you have the misfortune of momentarily losing balance and so much as touch the corner of their book or newspaper. They would prefer you fall out of the door and be run over by the back wheels of the bus, and die, than to even consider touching one of their shoes with your own shoe. But it doesn't stop there. The bus driver hates you just as much. He/she (and occasionally a He-She) is constantly telling your stupid, bovine fucking ass to move to the back of the bus, or not stand next to the door sensor in the back. Do you know who else hates you just as much? The other people standing up. They don't want you touching them. They don't want you breathing on them. They fucking hate you with the fury of a thousand suns for the mere fact that you had the audacity to board the same bus that they are forced to stand on. If the bus suddenly stops and everyone goes flying into one another, the person you ran into will wish you dead on the spot for running into them, despite the fact they hit the person in front of them. In every possible scenario you lose. Someone sitting down farts, it drifts to your nose. Someone standing up farts, it drifts into your nose. Hot air rises. Hell, chicks can get finger-blasted against their will and have no legal recourse whatsoever. If you get finger-blasted unwillingly while sitting down on the bus, they have courts for that. But it is understood by the U.S. legal system that if you are standing on that same bus and are penetrated through force, there are no laws to protect you. The lawyer will gravely shake his head "no" as you plead with him to take your case. When you get on that bus and there are no seats, you have two choices: A) Knowingly forfeit all your rights as a U.S. citizen and human being or B) Step right back off the bus and hail a cab. Just know that if you choose option A, you are an un-person.

We're on the "Same Schedule", that is so Cool!

I can't go more than a week or two of my life without someone in the bathroom whom I've pissed next to twice that same day telling me, "Haha, we must be on the same schedule".....wait for it....wait for it.......nope, that's fucking it. That is the end of their supposed glance into the interworkings of quantum physics that would equal two dudes in the same office pissing at the same time, more than once in the same day. On my good days I smile and say "That we are", which is really my way of saying, "Push off, you fucking tosser". On my bad days, I don't answer. I don't look at them. I make them uncomfortable. It is my way of saying "Thanks for the queer-assed observation of our supposed synced excretion of liquid nitrogenous waste. Go open the nearest window and leap to your pathetic death that no one will fucking grieve, please." I couldn't be less impressed about our pissing in close proximity together twice today. I wouldn't be impressed if it happened 75 times in one week. You want to know why? Because I am the Yoda of taking pisses. I've drunk more water by 07:00 a.m. than you will all fucking day. I piss like Peter North fucks. Deal with it. I live in that bathroom, so to be in there at the same time as me more than once in a day is about as impressive as having your own blog. Hell, there are women who are in the bathroom at the same time as me more than once per day. So keep your useless tit casual observations to such crowd-pleasers as "It's Hump Day", "Almost quittin' time" or the always enjoyed "One less day 'til Friday". That way you can still be super-lame, just not in the toilet.

Are they Fucking Kidding Me with this College Tuition Shit?

I started some research this week into savings options for my 6 week old kid's college education, which will commence (of course barring some armpit hair hippy leftist rebellion of "I'm not going to college") in 2029. I did some projections of what tuition might cost 18 years into the future. Here is what I found: Go Fuck Yourself. You can talk to the hand, because the face ain't talkin' no more. All projections point to mid-range 4 year university tuition (unless of course my gal takes a Victory Lap 5th year like Da-Da) in the neighborhood of $50Billion. Well guess what? I'll show them by not even saving for it. Not one fucking dime. Instead I'm buying her a sweet soccer ball, a violin made from rare teak and strung with endangered Siberian tiger ligaments, and an abacus. Best to level-set her early and explain that she'd better kick, bow those strings, or mathlete her way into a full-ride....or be prepared to cook french fries. Because I don't see the point in even trying to pay for that bonkers bullshit. Besides what do you need college for anyway? I went there, and I want to jerk the car into a goddamn bridge abutment every morning on the way to work. If one of these scholarship-winning activities doesn't take it isn't a big deal. Like Judge Smails said, "The world needs ditch-diggers too".

The Baby Bjorn Carrier is Fun

Do you see how utterly and completely happy everyone in this true photo to the left is? Smiling, content, comfortable, preppy, near some artistic sandstone somewhere? This is a family that plays together, and obviously they are happier for it. ERRONEOUS! Erroneous on all counts! I broke mine out of the box for the first time yesterday. You need a goddamned degree in astro-physics from MIT, with a minor in mechanical engineering, to figure out how to put this thing on. I went from happy as a little lark, to seething with murderous rage, in approximately 3 minutes flat. These happy, handsome Swedes can kiss my fucking ass. Where is the slip-on version? I want to buy that. Had my wife not intervened and showed me how to use it (she already went to hell and back with the users' guide on a previous day), the half-assembled Bjorn would have been in the middle of Division Street yesterday afternoon, you can bet your bottom dollar. And when I finally managed to properly hook up the 42 separate buttons, snaps, clips, pulls, ropes, adjusters, and parachute cord, I can promise you my 6 week old baby looked absofuckinglutely nothing like that little asshole in this picture. She screamed bloody goddamn murder for several minutes while I furiously paced the condo trying to figure out how to unsnap everything my wife already snapped before leaving me to my death. After 5 minutes of a baby screaming at its shrillest volume 4 inches from my right ear, and covered in thick sweat, I finally calmed her and began my journey. She promptly took a dump 2 blocks from our building, so I got to inhale that as it wafted directly into my breathing jet stream for about 40 minutes. All-in-all it was a really great time. I recommend that if you are a first time user, open it up and begin reading the booklet 4 hours prior to your desired leave time. Also, it would not hurt to recruit a nerdy Indian guy from your local institute of technology for assistance.

If you are a Big 'Ol Fat Person, is a Poncho like the Top thing you can Wear?

It has to be. It does not inhibit the natural ebb and flow of the fat as you waddle about your day. It lets air circulate to various underfat regions that would otherwise be suffocating when wearing clothes not designed for Mexican cowboys. Essentially you just grab a big blanket and stick your giant melon head through the hole in the middle, and you are ready to rock. Another feature is the ease with which you can brush off hot dog toppings, pepperoni, cookie crumbs, pie fillings, globs of mayonnaise and french fries which miss your gullet in the frenzy which occurs at the mouth. You can just wipe that shit right off with a ham hock-swipe of the arm and not worry about buttons, cuffs or tucking in. The Poncho says "Laid back and unkempt", but without sacrificing "Ready to go to a jam-band concert".

The reason I ask is that there are two women who work in my building that wear a poncho most days. Yes, two. I don't know which company(ies) they work for, but they are in my building. How do two women over the age of 30 find themselves employed in the same building in downtown Chicago at the same time, both adorned in Ponchos you ask? That is a question for Stephen Hawking or perhaps Jean Paul Sartre, not me. But they are here. Both carry themselves with an air of slovenliness and lack of hygiene, though they take different routes to the same destination. One gal opts to shower, but never comb or in any other way take care of her own hair. The other rather looks showered, but always with hair that looks as though it was doused with bacon grease each morning and combed straight back, like a longer styling of Pat Reilly's. The latter is also seen loitering about local businesses and common areas, eating and drinking Starbucks milkshakes. She is perpetually running her ample mouth, voicing her disdain for everyone in her personal life and her coworkers. I imagine that she is an incredibly popular person in the office. My guess is that the only time anyone speaks to her is at the annual office Christmas (sorry, Holiday--thanks feminists) party when the veterans try to see if they can get the Fuckin' New Guy drunk enough to roll in the straw with her. Say what you will about their hair or their personality, you cannot say these two lasses aren't comfortable under their well-worn wool ponchos in festive Mexican stitch. Whether its riding the bus, sipping your 6th Venti Frozen Caramel Macchiato of the day, or just hanging out in the lobby bitching up a storm, you can go about your day unfettered by the likes of the vile sleeve or the sinister button. And when Cinco de Mayo rolls around each year, you're fucking well ready.

PS--The first person to comment with the correct origin of the line: "Oh yeah. Isn't she a big 'ol fat person?" wins absolutely nothing.

Dear The Donald: You Might Want to Remove Obama's Balls from your Chin before you try to Talk Again

In an utterly stunning turn of events, The Donald's surprising streak of successful assholery came to a screeching halt this past weekend. Obama first drops the birth certificate on his ass. Which by the way, if you are a "Birther", you should be taken out behind the tool shed and raped to death with an old 2x4. No sense in wasting a bullet on your retarded ass; those cost money. The Donald did a decent job of spinning this as doing a great turn for the American people, proving their president has the right to be president. Great job Toupee, because he hasn't already been president for 2+ years. Then we fast-forward to Saturday night where Obama takes a giant Mexican food and Tequila dump right on The Donald's Chevy Chase. Roasted that asshat into the Bronze Age. Less than 24 hours later Obama is giving the green light on icing the world's #1 most wanted. Say what you will about this whole bin Laden affair, and I've said plenty. But you have to recognize the marbles it took for Obama to make this call. He could have dropped in a bunker bomb and obliterated everything close to Osama. But we would have never had the proof. So he goes with the summer action flick scenario with the Seals repelling in and shooting mutherfuckers at point blank. If that fails and Osama escapes, Barack is a GOAT. So what does The Donald do now? Hopefully shuts the fuck up. This asshole has never done anything in his life. He is a Trustafarian run amok. He took a huge inheritance and pissed it away as only a privileged assclown could. He gets by on arrogance and self-promotion. Unfortunately that is good enough in this era of bread and circus, but it doesn't make him any less a human parasite. If I'm Obama I would complete this hat trick and go +1 by pulling off a menage-a-trois with The Donald's wife and daughter. Obama is at that point where he is standing over The Donald as the The Toupee is in a death circle, and the Mortal Kombat announcer is yelling "FINISH HIM!". Banging his wife and/or daughter would ensure this fuckstick can't open his mouth in public ever again.