- A silly video about why God's plan is wrong. (Tron)
- A lot of nut kicking. I tell you what: watching people getting kicked in the nuts never gets old. (Tron)
- Another nut kicker. (Tron)
- Strange foreign (?) X-Box commercial with a crazy old woman. (Tron)
- Funny spelling bee skit. (probably NSFW because of certain language) (Tron)
- Pretty solid news clip with interesting goings on in the background. (Tron)
- Highlights from a Michigan State-Grand Valley State dodgeball match. (Tron)
- Girls punching each other. (Tron)
- IU basketball montage set to Aerosmith's "Dream On." For you Illinois fans, those 5 weird-looking red rectangles at the beginning are NCAA championship banners. (Millertime)
- Great little flash video about playing "Jingle Bells" in reverse. (Holt)
- Stupid volleyball coach. (Tron)
- Tenacious D cartoon (don't play too loud if you're at work). (Tron)
- Some guy tries to stop a ceiling fan with his head. (Tron)
- Some awesomely bad tattoos. Like nut kicking, bad tattoos are always funny. (Klank)
- Great article from the Indy Star with IU and Purdue jokes. (Shep)
- Aries Spears does on-the-fly dead-on impressions of various rappers. Listen to it without watching it. Damn good. (Tron)
Thursday, November 30, 2006
So far today I have done the following:
- Performed an exorcism on a cat, which was a pain in the ass because I'm allergic.
- For the fun of it, I decided to drive to Peoria and back without stopping, not even to throw rotten eggs and tomatos at the Exit 209 sign for Odell. Those smug Odellians really chap my ass, with their fancy sneakers and rock and roll music.
- Ran around the block four times.
- Walked a coneheaded dog, which took a while because she kept smacking her cone into walls and fences.
- Watched some TV, heard a John Mellencamp song. 432 times.
- Talked to Holt via mobile telephone.
- Cooked a turducken.
- Entered a Mickey Rourke trivia contest.
- Invented edible chalk, and then lost the recipe.
- Sat on couch for hours at a time, staring mindlessly at the television screen and the computer screen.
- Finally learned double dutch thanks in large part to some local schoolchildren.
I may post some sweet links to videos and such a little later. What the hell else do I have to do?
Currently I'm watching Bravo's Sexiest Moments in Film countdown while challenging myself to nine-and-a-half-week sadomasichism contest.
Twentysomething female at a bar discussing the fact that the temperature was going to drop 30 degrees over the course of the evening, but that she didn't have a jacket: "I wear a jacket. It's called liquor."
--Bloomington, IN, Nick's English Hut
Drunk guy 1: "Hey, don't wear a jacket."
Drunk guy 2: "It's cold."
DG1: "If you wear a jacket, you know what I'm going to call you all night? A no-ball pussy loser." DG2: "Fine, I'm not wearing a jacket."
Girl: "I'm wearing a jacket. What does that make me?"
DG1: "You're a girl and petite. You don't count."
--Chicago, some place
Eavesdropper: ½ pint
Muddy spectator: "I don't get it. Why don't they make the women run at least 8K? The men run 10K. 6K is so much shorter."
Varsity jacket: "Because people would complain. Plus, girls can't run that far."
--Terre Haute, IN, Muddy Field, NCAA Cross Country Championships
Twentysomething male yells to friend dancing with 2 girls at a bar: "[Karloff], if you don't have a threesome tonight, I'm gonna be pissed!"
--Chicago, Barleycorn's, Clybourn & Webster
(side note: he didn't)
Bitter 26-year-old male who often pederasts women, upon being pederasted himself by a 34-year-old blonde: "This is what I do to people? I'm a monster."
--Chicago, Rocks, Schubert & Lakewood
After a drunken night, a bunch of people are viewing photos from the night before. A picture of a girl comes up on the screen.
Guy 1: "Hey, nice DSLs."
(All the guys in the room start laughing.)
Guy 2 (to the only girl in the room): "Do you know what that means?"
Girl: "No. What is that?"
Guy 2: "Hey, Guy 1, what does that mean?"
Guy 1: "Dick sucking lips."
--Chicago, some apartment
Eavesdropper: ½ pint
A table of late twentysomthings and early thirtysomethings discussing politics and other current events. A male at the table interjecting with comment that appeared to be completely irrelivent to their conversation: "You know necrophilia is easier for men to practice then it is for women."
Remainder of table: blank stares
Necrophiliac: "Well...it is."
--Chicago, Red Lion Pub, Lincoln & Montana
Blonde, discussing new boyfriend: "He's a landscape architect."
Special ed teacher: "Ooooh, I love those."
--Chicago, Cesar's, Clark & Belmont
This is one of those entries that isn't technically eavesdropping, but more than worthy of inclusion. Good work Wee Wee. Here's the verbatim email I received:
"I was reading the blog and thought that you would appreciate this story that happened to me at Wal-mart last Friday...let me set the scene....
I park 5 spots from the furthest away spot just so that I do not have to look for a spot closer. The car next to me has 4 people in it and the only person who gets out happens to be blind. My first though is "what kind of asses can't just drop the blind guy off at the door if they are not going in?" I am walking behind the blind man with the cane so as to not trip the poor guy as we approach the building and the doors open. I am still chuckling to myself about him being dropped off a mile away from the door when ANOTHER blind guy with a cane comes out of the sliding doors. How strange...two blind guys in the same place.....Then it happened.....
Blind Guy #1 : "Hey Paul."
Blind Guy #2: "Hey Todd."
And they keep tapping right along......WHAT THE FUCK?!?!? Either they could tell by their tapping or they are a bunch of fakers?!
By this time I am actually doubled over in the Wal-Mart lobby trying to figure out who I am going to call and tell this story.....at least I didn't hear a "good to see you" in there anywhere but I still can't figure it out. And the best part is that the guy coming out was all by himself and he was carrying a sack of groceries....How did he know what he was getting?"
--Richmond, IN, Wal-Mart
Eavesdropper: Wee Wee
Thanks to everyone who submitted. Keep those ears open. My ability to overhear anything funny for the next 8 days is going to be severely limited by this:
Currently I am watching Pop Up Video on VH1 Classic, challenging myself to a 99 Red Balloons trivia contest. Everyone's a Captain Courage.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
- Harley is wearing a cone and will be doing so for the next 10-14 days. This ensures that she will be smacking her head into various impediments, such as the coffee table, the couch, doorways, her food dish, and my foot.
- Harley has a sweet scar.
- I must monitor the incision site for signs of swelling, discharge, redness, infection, ovaries, hyperplastic uterine pedicles, or Karen Carpenter (too soon?).
- Harley must be kept quiet for the next 2 weeks, which means that I have to devise a way to prevent squirrels from traversing up the trees outside my apartment and a way to prevent my neighbors from entering and exiting their apartments.
- Harley's oversized nipples will soon return to normal size.
- For the next two weeks, Harley is not allowed to run. This presents an issue because Harley tries to incorporate running into all aspects of her life, including sleeping.
- For the next two weeks, Harley is not allowed to jump, including onto and off of the couch. This presents an issue because 94% of Harley's life is spent on the couch or on a certain chair upstairs. Which brings me to my next point . . .
- For the next two weeks, Harley is not allowed to go up or down stairs. What's really awesome about this is that we live on the third floor, and our apartment is two levels, with our bedroom upstairs, which is where Harley sleeps (or should I say, used to sleep). As you may have surmised, Harley's inability to go up or down stairs means that I get to carry her cone-headed ass up and down the stairs every time she needs to urinate or defecate. And while outside, I have to prevent squirrels, rabbits, or birds from appearing, people from walking by her, all while monitoring her scar for abnormalities.
Currently I'm watching 8 Mile while challenging myself to a mom's spaghetti eating contest.
At 8pm, two things happened: (1) the trivia contest started and (2) the IU/Duke game started. Does it get any better than playing trivia while watching IU basketball? The answer is "yes," but Jessie wasn't up to it in front of all those strangers.
We had to split up into 2 teams, as there is what I thought was a strict 6-person-per-team rule. It was Pissed Off, the Weesers*, and Myers on the Angry Pirates, and it was the rest of us on Fortnight of Andrew. The 6 rounds of trivia proved to be a challenge, but a welcome one at that. Fortnight of Andrew swept Round 6 (which happened to be the shot round, thus earning us a free shot of what I think was Crystal Light Lemonade), but it was not enough to overtake the top overall spot (from a team that may have had 7 people playing), leaving us in 2nd place. Like in Miramar, there are no points for second place at Rocks. The Angry Pirates finished somewhere lower than 2nd, also receiving nothing.
Meanwhile, IU was getting jobbed at Cameron Indoor. I guess I should expect Duke to shoot 14 more free throws than IU. Then again, IU shot a solid 7-15 from the charity stripe, which sealed its fate quite handsomely. And of course IU still had a chance to tie the game in the final seconds when Armon Bassett -- the sharp-shooting Hoosier freshman who was 4-5 from 3-point range -- passed up on a three and started to drive before passing the ball to Errek Suhr -- the shortest guy on the court by several inches -- for a last-second falling three-point attempt that fell about four feet short of the basket. If there's any solace, it's that IU beat the spread by 10.5 points, so anyone betting on Duke lost. Moral victories suck.
After the game ended and I stopped sobbing and yelling obscenities and ethnic epithets indiscriminately at other bar patrons (fucking Latvians), Gregerson decided that he hadn't given me enough money last Tuesday night while playing Silver Strike Bowling, so we played a few more games. The highlight for me was not necessarily the $100 that I won from him over the course of the night, but rather the manner in which I won. The second to last game garnered an audience of Pissed Off and a couple DePaul coeds who don't know who Poison or Pearl Jam are. After Greg bowled his 10th frame, I was down 27 pins or something like that. I needed 3 strikes in the 10th to win. Pressure mounted after I got the first strike. The crowd hushed with anticipation after I got the second strike. With ice water and Coors Light running through my veins, I blocked everything out. A more perfect strike has never been rolled. Victory was mine -- by 3 pins -- and it's never felt so good, especially after the 3-point losses in trivia and to Duke. Oh sweet irony. The entire bar erupted into a frenzy not seen since the Berlin Wall came down. Greg was weeping. Pissed Off was laughing at Greg. The two DePaul chicks started making out, and ironically one asked the other one to talk dirty to her, to which the other girl responded by saying that dirty talk was fine, as long as she didn't refer to her "daughter" this time.
I woke up around 11:12 this morning. It's raining, but that didn't stop me from swimming the width of the north branch of the Chicago River. Quite energizing, despite the E. Coli. I pick up Harley from the vet this afternoon. Photos and extensive coverage to follow.
Currently I'm watching Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous while challenging myself to a bullet eating contest.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
I spoke with the vet about Harley's whereabouts. She's still there, so that's a plus. Other questions were answered:
Visitors? Highly discouraged.
Hilarity? To ensue.
Going to Rocks to play trivia and watch IU/Duke? Hell yeah.
Sleeping in tomorrow? Indeed.
Long Live the Fortnight.
Then I took Harley to the vet's office for her exploratory surgery. Despite the fact that she was not given any food or drink after 10 last night, I don't think Harley had any idea what she was in for. I do, however, think that Harley has acquired a raging distaste for the vet's office. If not before, then surely now.
After I dropped her off, I headed back home where I caught up on some DVR'd episodes of Pornucopia. I had seen all of them several times before, but for some reason they just don't get old. While watching Pornucopia, I made an oversized goosedown pillow that I will give to the third homeless man or woman I encounter next Tuesday, assuming he or she can answer the following question correctly: "How many feathers are in this pillow?" An incorrect answer results in me yelling "wrong!" then ripping the pillow open and counting the feathers out loud, one by one. When finished, I will condescendingly yell, "See?!" Then I'll burn a $100 bill in front of them as I walk away singing "My Way" by Frank Sinatra.
My stitching was interrupted by a call from the vet. Harley, though groggy and a little lighter, was still alive. It turns out that whoever performed the spaying back when Harley was a puppy was, how you say, not so good. Maybe spayings are performed differently in southwestern Ohio than they are in the rest of the world, but whoever spayed Harley (we'll call him Dr. Cletus) took out the uterus. And Dr. Cletus out that pesky left ovary. But I'll be damned if Dr. Cletus didn't just go ahead and LEAVE THE ENTIRE RIGHT OVARY INSIDE THE DOG. I don't claim to be a vet -- at least not on Tuesdays -- but I think I know enough about anatomy to know that when spaying or neutering a dog, the best results are achieved when all reproductive organs are removed.
This "right ovary" that Dr. Cletus left inside my dog was just doing its job, making Harley's teats swell and secrete a "milk like" fluid, making Harley's vagina emit a "blood like" substance, and making Harley's vagina swell and emit a scent to attract red rockets at the dog park. Oh yeah, and making a new uterus. Yes, my dog was regenerating the uterus that Dr. Cletus so carefully removed.
So, the lesson to be learned is that when you get a dog that has allegedly been spayed from a rescue in Cincinnati, make sure to ask whether it was fully spayed or if it just got the ol' Cincinnati Spay. I want to say I'm surprised, but what the hell do I expect from a town that roots for a football team appropriately referred to as the Bungles?
Anywho, Harley gets to stay at the vet's office -- most likely cursing me nonstop -- until tomorrow afternoon, at which time I will pick her up and bludgeon most of my hopes for the Fortnight of Andrew, since I will have to constantly make sure that Harley is not biting her stitches. Hopefully they give her one of those hilarious head cones. Rest assured, if they do, a photo of her pathetic coned head will make it onto the World Wide Web somehow.
To calm my rage from the Cincinnati Spay, I rearranged the entire apartment, and then put it back to how it was before. Then I hit the laundromat to see how many slugs it takes to break one of those huge triple washers. The answer is one.
Currently I'm watching Goonies while challenging myself to a Martha Plimpton soundalike contest. Soon I will depart for a gymnasium, where I will use a medicine ball and calisthenics to ensure physical fitness.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Wednesday morning, Ari, Jessie, Harley, and I headed to Roanoke (Indiana, not Virginia) to their family homestead. It turns out that the goats their mom got last year have grown up. I discovered that I don't trust goats, especially when they are out of their pen. The horns, the demon eyes, the reckless lifestyle. Nothing about those little bastards says, "I will never headbutt you."
Wednesday night, Ari, Jester, Liz, Lizzie, and I hit the Roanoke bars. Yes, all three of them. First it was the Village Inn, second it was the Paragraph, and third it was the Lock. Beers were cheap, and dirty looks were cheaper. The most random event of the night occurred as Jessie and I were leaving the Lock to go home for the evening. A huge pick-up pulled into the lot and rolled down the window, imploring us to do the same. Jessie obliged. This young man was not looking for a piece of ass, but rather directions. Where? I-65. I-69? No, I-65. I-69? No, I-65. Are you sure you don't mean I-69? No, I-65. For those of you unfamiliar with Indiana's geography and roads, Roanoke is in the northeast part of the state, very close to I-69. I-65 runs down the west side of the state until it gets to Indy, then cuts down the middle of the state. Where was this young man heading? Indy? Zionsville? Seymour? No no. Orlando. Yep, the one in Florida. So at 2am, this guy pulls into a bar parking lot in Roanoke, Indiana looking for directions to Florida. Seems reasonable. The remnants of his corpse are being consumed as I write by a couple of nearby goats.
Thursday was Thanksgiving Dinner #1, a feast with turkey, goose, duck, lobster, scallops, and deer, not unlike the first Thanksgiving between the pilgrims and the Wampanoag. You see, they had no ovens, so they could make no pies.
Friday, we made our way back to Chicago, dropped Ari off, and then headed to the LG to my mom's house for Thanksgiving Dinner #2. And Food Coma #2. Friday night, the LG crew met up at local watering hole Palmer Place, featuring the largest beer selection in the Chicagoland area. I saw a Dane. He was with a woman he called his wife.
Saturday, Jester and I hit the Oak Brook Mall for some Christmas shopping. While there, we saw some crazyass ho wearing a pink sweater, covered by a pink jacket, along with some thigh-high pink suede boots. She came across as very kickable.
Saturday evening, we had Thanksgiving Dinner #3 at my dad's house. It was less traditional, featuring pork tenderloin and rolls and such.
Yesterday was inconsequential.
Today, however, began The Fortnight of Andrew. Costanza had the Summer of George. I only have 2 weeks. Thus, the Fortnight of Andrew.
And oh what a Fortnight it's shaping up to be. My morning began with a fresh bowl of Raisin Bran Crunch, followed by an oatmeal bath and a pedicure. Then I took Harley to the vet because her vagina was bleeding and she was lactating. This normally wouldn't be a big deal, except the good people at the rescue from whence we purchased her 2 1/2 years ago assured us that she didn't have a uterus or ovaries. Apparently there may be some ovarian tissue left over, which means Harley (unbenknownst to her) gets to have some exploratory surgery tomorrow. Weeeeee!
After that, I took the bitch home, hunted for some rabbits in Lincoln Park, then headed out to the burbs to get some Paul's with McClure. After a half beef-and-cheese on garlic and a slice of pepperoni, I headed back to my mom's house to pick up the cell phone charger I so carelessly left there a few days ago. It was still there. I openly wept. There were no squirrels in my mom's attic.
From there, I returned home via motorcar. Harley, vagina bleeding and tits spewing milk, was sound asleep on what used to be a gray couch.
Currently, I am watching Big Top Pee Wee while challenging myself to a Rolo eating contest.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
As you may have read in yesterday's hilarious post entitled "Karma," I have obtained new employment. My current firm seemed to take my announcement with indifference. Or so I thought.
This afternoon at 3:41pm, the two named partners -- smug and sullen -- walked into my office and shut the door. At first I thought it was going to be some sort of ritualistic gang probing, which I wouldn't have been cool with because I was wearing a suit. Then I thought that maybe they were going to Dutch oven me with their breath, filling the office with a combination of the worst smells ever emitted from a human mouth, which would have driven me to suicide -- or at least to open the door. Then maybe I thought they were going to ask me about why I wanted to leave, which might have made things awkward because the two main reasons were sitting right in front of me. No no. Here's what they said (or somthing like it): "The partners had a meeting and we think today should be your last day."
Guys, I could barely contain myself. I spent the next hour laughing my ass off, gathering my things, deleting dog-on-chick-on-horse porn from the computer, taking down the nothing I had hung on my wall, and belting out "Singing In the Rain" at the top of my lungs, leaving behind only an unopened can of Diet Mountain Dew, an unopened cup of blueberry yogurt, and an uneaten D'Anjou pear. Die slow motherfuckers.
So now I have almost three weeks off. I don't have to go through the motions for another two weeks. I don't have to hold my breath whenever I'm spoken to. Best of all, I don't ever have to walk into that place again. So when I'm drunk next Tuesday morning, you will hear my laughter ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city. "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
Since I hate to leave anyone empty-handed for a long weekend, here are a whole assload of videos and pictures and such to keep you occupied (as always, the contributor of the link follows the brief and possibly hilarious description):
- Jon Stewart on The Late Show. with David Letterman back in 1994 (Tron)
- Indian midget (as linked from GMYH previously) slaps some asshole wearing a tie. (Tron)
- Brazilian javelin judge gets what's coming to her. (RobD)
- Guy standing on sidewalk accidentally smacks girl walking down sidewalk. Girl's boyfriend is a ninja. This is awesome. (Tron)
- In case you haven't heard this yet (I can't remember if I posted it or not), it's a Detroit sportscaster who went to Michigan State, and he loses his mind on the air after MSU's choke job against Notre Dame. It's long, but well worth an entire listen. What's great is how he starts off completely normal and civil, and his voice deteriorates into that of a combination between Chuck Amato and a WWF wrestler, and he fends off the attempts of his co-host to stop him. Make plays! Pucker pucker pucker! Agggaaaaaaain! (Tradd)
- Deleted scene from Borat movie. He visits a doctor for STDs. Hilarity ensues. (Tron)
- Someone who ate Mr. Belding chokes a couple guys. (Tron)
- An article entitled "Man tries to convert lions to Jesus, gets bitten." I think that sums it up better than I could. (Christoff)
- Hand farters perform a medley. Actually pretty impressive. (Tron)
- Biff Tannen sings about what not to ask Biff Tannen. (Tron)
- 1988 Inside Edition piece on Nintendo and Super Mario Brothers, featuring a seemingly non-antagonistic Bill O'Reilly. (Weeser*)
- Montage of boobs bouncing up and down on The Price Is Right. (Tron)
- Boxing kangaroo. (Tron)
- Unfunny comedian flips out at audience member after he utters racial slur (it's not Michael Richards), then almost gets beat up by two chicks. (Tron)
- Clip from Facts of Life where Tootie brings home a few bongs. Mrs. Garrett gets pissed. (Tron)
- German version of Bert & Ernie, where they apparently do a lot of drugs and are cyclopses (or is it cyclopi?). Creepy as hell. (Tron)
- Great football hit. And yes, that is Quentin Coryatt. (me)
- Disturbing article about restaurant in Beijing that serves, uh, members. (RobD)
- Pretty sweet hackeysacking. I never thought I'd ever say that. (Tron)
- Nice article about Malort. (Gregerson)
- Hilarious '80s PSA about love and sex. (Weeser*)
- Women Doing Time. No, this isn't an awesome porn. It's an actual website that allows you (for a fee) to communicate with women behind bars. There are bios, pictures, and everything. This website will provide you with hours of entertainment. (Dalsin)
Have a great long weekend.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Saturday was the first annual "Shit on Andrew" Day here in the Midwest. It started out with my beloved Hoosiers football team racking up over 500 yards of total offense and forcing 5 turnovers, yet still finding a way to score only 19 points and lose the Old Oaken Bucket game to Purdue. Then again, how could IU be expected to win given the overwhelming stench of manure, burnt plastic, rotten pigeon corpses, and damned souls that hangs over West Lafayette. The Purdue players are used to it, but when you come from Bloomington -- a town whose only smells are those of hope, promise, and freshly washed breasts -- it's quite a shock to the system. But anywho, so help me God, if we don't go to a bowl next year, then dammit, I will wait another year. Because IU will be going to the Rose Bowl in 2008. I ain't scurrred.
To add to it, Ohio State beat Michigan. I hate both teams, but after having lived in Ohio for 2 1/2 years, I hate Ohio State fans as a whole more than any other fanbase in the world (luckily, my friends at my old firm who are OSU fans are exceptions to the rule and were actually civil). Anyway, you may have heard that those two teams were playing Saturday. Aside from the result, it was a great game, hopefully setting up a January 8 rematch for the national championship.
Sportswise, it only got worse when I found out that the IU soccer team lost in the 3rd round of the NCAA tournament in a shootout to the mighty Broncos of Santa Clara. For those of you who don't know about IU soccer, they have 7 NCAA championships, and I expect them to win it all every year. Thus, a loss in the tournament is unacceptable, especially given the IU football team's egg-laying up in West Lafayette.
It couldn't get worse, could it? Oh hell yeah.
My brother and I took my mom and my aunt (and Jessie and Reed's special ladyfriend Sarah) out to dinner at Merlo for my mom and aunt's birthdays, both of which were last week. Merlo holds itself out to be a nice Italian restaurant, touting such pretentious crap on their menu as "rabbit ragu," "black truffle carpaccio," and "hard-boiled quail eggs." Nonetheless, it received pretty good reviews, and it's a block from my house, so it just made sense.
I can't remember a time when I've had a worse overall restaurant experience. We get seated and our waiter -- we'll call him Dildo -- tries to cajole us into buying various expensive bottles of wine. We pass on the wine in favor of various cocktails. I order a vodka martini, since I was feeling like an asshole. Once it came, I took a sip of what I believe to be straight dry vermouth. What a piece of shit drink this was. At that point I wasn't too pissed off, so I stopped Dildo then next time he came by the table -- which was about 15 minutes later -- and asked for a Manhattan. It was fine, athough the cherries had the consistency of wet dog food and tasted like they had been accidentally fermenting in someone's basement for the last 30 years.
Dildo also really pushed us to get some appetizer sampler that wasn't on the menus, but (as you probably guessed) combined a few of the appetizers. None of us wanted appetizers, so we politely declined. The result was that Dildo visited our table only thrice more throughout the night: once when I flagged him down to get bread, once when I flagged him down to bring us our check, and once when he brought our check.
At one point, we looked around and noticed that every other table in the restaurant had bread. My first few attempts to flag Dildo down were futile, as I had temporarily turned invisible. Eventually we got bread. An hour after we sat down.
I haven't had a nice fat portion of really good Italian food in a while, so I figured I would order the pasta with meat sauce. Simple, but it seemed like it would hit the spot. Apparently, what they pass of as "tagliatelle al ragu bolognese" on the menu is actually a meager portion of pasta covered in Grade D ground beef with no flavor or spices. It reminded me of when non-Italians try to make meat sauce and forget to put tomatos, onions, garlic, oregano, basil, etc. in it. Seriously, it tasted like someone just took a hamburger patty, chopped it up, and put it over some noodles. For $18, I at least expected something more than what a preschooler could have put together.
And then -- because I hadn't had enough shit rained upon me -- they automatically add an 18% gratuity to the bill because we were a party of 6. While the busboys and hostesses were very nice, Dildo was, well, a dildo. I'm usually a pretty decent tipper. My baseline is 20%, and you have to really be an asshole to get lower than that. Dildo deserved no more than 4%.
As we were passing Dildo on the way out, he stood there and let all of us walk right past him while he looked at us. No "bye." No "thanks." No "have a nice night." No "sorry I'm such a dildo, but that's actually my first name." No nothing.
Then Sunday, a slight shit reprieve was granted as the Bears shut out the J-E-T-S Jets Jets Jets. However, any joy that I took from the Bears victory was turned into anger as I learned that Donovan McNabb -- the starting QB on 2 of my 3 fantasy teams -- tore his ACL and will be out for the rest of the season. In case you haven't been keeping tabs (and you shouldn't be), in my other league I had the 1st pick of the draft. I took Shaun Alexander. I could have taken anyone. In case you haven't been keeping tabs, LaDanian Tomlinson is having one of the best seasons in NFL history. But I took Shaun Alexander, who broke his foot a few weeks into the season, who I traded a few weeks ago for Bernard Berrian. Yes, the very same Bernard Berrian who got injured after the first pass he caught in the first game he was on my team.
So here's what I got out of this weekend: no bowl or NCAA soccer title for IU, happy OSU fans, low-grade dog meat for $18, and no more McNabb. Holy Mother of God, how could I possibly dig myself out of this one?
Dig I did, my friends. Dig I did.
At 9:58am this morning, I got a call from a guy named Tom, although his name might as well have been Karma or Sweet Justice or Captain Justice Karmasweet. He is a partner at a fairly big law firm here in town where I had interviewed twice unbeknownst to my current employer. It was a firm where I really wanted to work, which in the past has pretty much meant a ding letter at over a 99.9% clip. The conversation started out with him telling me how "impressed" he and the other people who interviewed me had been with me. I took this to mean that I was in the midst of a phone ding, which I'm not sure I would have been able to take without a razor blade and a bathtub. My fears were allayed when he uttered eight words I never thought I'd hear again: "we would like to make you an offer." Sweet redemption, thy name is Tom.
For those of you who don't know, I have been largely unhappy at my current place of employment. I have had to endure long hours, several socially inept co-workers, an area of the law that is slightly less interesting than BookTV, and a near-constant bombardment of the worst dragon breath this side of that dude who said "I am the last one." The lurid details will eventually come to light in a limited-edition tell-all book, tentatively titled after a popular grass substitute.
So anyway, I put in my notice this morning. It was met with unabashed indifference. Luckily (and oddly), no one asked me why I was leaving. I've just about packed it in mentally. I pretty much plan on being hungover every day for the next two and a half weeks.
And finally, Happy Birthday to loyal GMYH reader Lynn "1/2 Pint" Hilao. Your birthday pretty much rules.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Last night's The OC was mediocre at best, which means that it was still better than every other show in the history of television except other episodes of The OC. Here's a recap:
- For the third episode in a row, Ryan was not involved in underground cage fighting. Instead, he got a job at a posh Mexican restaurant, El Pavo Guapo, which of course means "the handsome paver" in Spanish.
- Seth goes to visit Summer at Brown. During the course of his visit, he walks in on Che playing the guitar naked. Seth leaves Brown telling Summer that he's going to give her some space for a few months, probably because she takes fewer showers now.
- Taylor Townsend refers to her French husband (who is named -- get this -- Henri-Michel) as a "sexual Jedi." This, of course, begs the question: did they refer to their bedroom as Degobah? Did he initiate sexual encounters with "Love we will make. Resist you would be foolish to do. On hands and knees this time you will be."? Also, if this man's penis were to be chopped off by some towering, black-clad asshole that turns out to be his father, would it be able to regenerate? Also, when Henri-Michel asked Taylor about a new sexual position and she said "I'll try it," did Henri-Michel say, "Do or do not. There is no try."? I'm guessing "yes" is the answer to all questions.
- Henri-Michel sends his lawyer to Newport to tell Taylor that he will not divorce her unless there is proof that she is unfaithful, due to some stupid French law that is designed to ensure that unhappy, loveless marriages continue indefinitely. Thus, she convinces Ryan to help her out by making out with her in front of this frog lawyer. It works, and Taylor gets her divorce. Intimations are made that Taylor is moist for Ryan. Then again, who wouldn't be? The man can give a girl a screaming orgasm simply by standing within 10 feet of her and wiggling his index finger. Now that is evidence of a sexual Jedi.
- Sandy goes on a "guy date" with some dude from the PD's office. They go "golfing." I really see this thing going somewhere. I mean, Jason Spitz -- Spitzy -- is sooo funny and pretty easy on the eyes as well.
- Kaitlin and Julie make a doomed pact, whereby Julie agrees to steer clear of men if Kaitlin agrees to steer clear of trouble. This would kind of be like if K-Fed and David Duke made a pact, whereby K-Fed agreed to steer clear of being the largest bag of douche of all-time, but only if David Duke agreed to steer clear of hating all non-Aryans.
- Kaitlin gets a fake ID. Julie goes out to a club with some Newpsie trick who's into letting younger men do her. As luck would have it, Kaitlin randomly chooses to go to the very same club where Julie is doing what I think is the lambada (the fordibben dance) with some man half her age. Meanwhile Kaitlin watches, probably thinking to herself, "What is shay doing hare? Thas is so embarrassang."
- Will Sandy and Spitzy be able to make it? If so, how many guy dates before they go all the way? Will this somehow spark Kirsten to hit the bottle and become a lipstick lesbian?
- How many young men will Julie sleep with before her decrepit, saggy vagina finally gets too big for anything less than a horse? At that time, will a sexy new character named Smarty Bones show up at the Newport Stables?
- Is Summer really going to be a hippie throughout this season? If so, will she be able to stand the patchouli-laced stench of Che's obviously dank crotch?
- Meanwhile, who will Seth try to do in Newport? Kaitlin? What?
- When will (not just will) Ryan get bored with not having sex and plow Taylor into submission?
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Here is a blow-by-blow recap of this past weekend. All times are Eastern. Aside from the parts that are embellished, every single word is true
Jessie, Ari, and I leave Chicago in The Blaab.
Jessie, Ari, and I arrive at the Indiana Memorial Union. We check into a secret room called the Metz Suite -- reserved only for foreign dignitaries, heads of state, Mark Cuban, Oprah, Nelly, and this one guy I know named Jamie.
7pm to 9pm
Other travelers and wellwishers arrive at the Metz Suite, including: Lizzie "Jester and Ari's Sister" Pope, Tony "TG" Green, Brian (one of TG's roommates), Brandon (another one of TG's roommates), Ryan "Pissed Off" Christoff, Greg "The Michigan Grad" Peterson, Tradd "Danger" Fromme, and Kara "Tradd's Special Ladyfriend" Madrin.
We all head to Nick's English Hut to play some Sink the Bismark, known colloquially as "Sink" or "Sink the Biz," if you're not into the whole brevity thing. Joining us were JR "Eehoc" Cohee, Nate "Don't Call Me Bic" Bick, and Nate's friend Leann (or possibly Leanne, Leeann, Leeanne, Li-An, Leigh Ann, or Leigh Anne). We decide that there are too many players for just one game. Thus, we start up two games, dividing the rookies.
Chris "Gemkeezi" Gemkow and wife Selina "Seleezi?" Gemkow show up at Nick's with Seleezi's brother Brendan and mutual friend JT arrive at Nick's. As there is no room at our table, they do not sit down with us.
After dropping their shit off (yes, feces) at the Metz Suite, "NaviKate" Rohrer, Mike "Unbelivab" Ullmer, Jim "Stop And" Gobrail, and Jenn "Still a Rookie" Gobrail find their way to Nick's on foot, probably via pathways and streets. By this time, the crew playing at one end of the table has successfully destroyed Sink rookie Brian. He can be seen wavering helplessly, winking at imaginary women, and convincing himself that he should still attempt to play this sometimes savage game.
We decide to face what we wrongly assumed was driving rain, and we go across the street to Upstairs for a quick AMF. Thanks in large part to rare chemical reaction with blue curacao and a complete lack of social graces, Ryan is unable to stop closing his eyes and climaxing silently while standing next to Tradd. Under his breath, he mutters "I want to tell everyone" over and over again in a voice not unlike Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. It would not be the last time that Ryan will expunge bodily fluids on himself. 11:43pm
We decide to face what is now driving rain, and we head several blocks to The Bluebird to see Dave & Rae perform.
Ryan gets on bench with first beer, Greg, and Tradd. Ryan creeps the fuck out of everyone in the bar.
Greg gets off the bench. Tradd imitates Gene Simmons, quite horribly I might add. Ryan continues to creep the fuck out of everyone in the bar.12:04am
Tradd gets ready to punch a gnat, while Ryan beckons Thor. 12:15am
Jessie keeps it real while Lizzie flashes gang signs (the Palsies, if you're wondering). Jenn eagerly looks for Thor.
Ryan pisses himself, manages to get a look on his face that creeps the fuck out of everyone in the bar. 12:43am
Dave says "trill."
Ryan stands on bench, pisses himself again. Luckily, Kate LOVES the smell of bitter, angry urine.12:45am
Ryan flicks off the camera while Kate tries to steer clear of Ryan's effluence. Meanwhile, some old dude in the background kept praising Thor, who you can't see but is standing on the bench, blocked by Ryan's anger.
Greg, Brian, TG, Tradd, me, and Ryan decide to take one of those hilarious devil horn, pointy finger pictures.
Ari invents a new dance called The Yawn. That creepy old dude in the back is actually doing a pretty good Yawn, considering the dance was invented mere seconds before this picture was taken.
Jessie and I decide that The Yawn is a stupid dance, so we invent The Creep, patterned after a 26-year-old Chicagoan male's faces made between the hours of 10pm Friday November 10, 2006 and 12:21am Saturday November 11, 2006. It didn't catch on.
Tradd and Kara continue to smile. By this point Ryan was lactating profusely, but only from his left nipple. Attempts to milk him were met with resistence and ire.
Ryan's arms begin to leak, signaling that all fluid-producing glands and organs in his body have in fact entered a state of complete uncontrollability and insubordination. Tradd brings this fact to Ryan's attention. Despite his amenable tone, Tradd falls victim to Ryan's deceptively powerful "Two-Finger Cup Chest Punch." As someone who doesn't take no shit from nobody, Tradd grabbed Ryan by the arm -- being careful to grab the non-leaky one -- and positioned Ryan for a bushwacking. I couldn't stand to see the sight of my former roommates coming to blows, so I made a peace offering by allowing Tradd to grab me by the scruff of the neck and punch me in my good temple.
Mike totally finds some chick to hook up with, or so he thought. Happiness turns to confusion and anger when the light of the flash reveals something that causes Mike to point and ask, "Is this bitch wearing my necklace?"
Test tube shots are ordered with reckless abandon. Test tube shots are consumed. Test tube shot glasses are slammed to the ground and stepped on with vigor. The bouncer approaches, and the following exchange occurs:
Bouncer: "You guys are kicked out."
Christoff: "For what?!"
Bouncer: "You guys broke glass, so you guys have to leave."
Me: "It was plastic, man, it wasn't glass."
The bouncer has no response, as my quick-witted semantics have left him befuddled. We turn around and continue our stay at The Bluebird while the bouncer is left to stand against the rail and try to concoct another method of removing us from the bar. 2:16am
Ryan chokes me, which paves the way for another bouncer to attempt to kick us out. We explain that we mean no harm to each other, but rather are just big Michael Hutchence fans, so we wanted to see what it must have felt like. The bouncer calls us "sickos" and walks away.
Jenn, Jim, Jester, and I walk right into Rockit's to order ourselves a whole pizza pie for consumption.
Our pizza is ready.
Our pizza no longer exists.
Jenn, Jim, Jester, and I arrive back at the Metz Suite to discover that others before us have ordered Aver's pizza. Not yet satiated by the third of a pizza I just ate, I decide to have a couple pieces of Aver's.
Several blocks from the Union, Ari mercilessly mocks Ryan, who is now completely drenched in his own fluids. Ryan bodyslams Ari into a small fence with a chain running along the top, all while yelling "It's my glands! Can't you understand that? It's. My. Glands." A teary-eyed Ryan picks Ari up and carries her limp body back to the Metz Suite.
Ryan and Ari arrive at the Metz Suite. Ari's arm develops an unbelievably sweet bruise the length of her right tricep and discovers that while being bodyslammed for no reason whatsoever, her digital camera fell out. Thus, a posse was rounded up to look for it. The first search party leaves.
I am on my second piece of Aver's and enjoying the fact that I am soon going to be both asleep and gluttonously full. Jessie berates me because I am not part of the search party, even though I do not know the path they took nor the scene of the bodyslamming. In protest, I throw a piece of pizza at a garbage can in the hallway, missing horribly. My protest is futile. We leave.
Jessie and I see Ryan and Ari walking towards us on 7th St. They indicate that they have found the camera. Ryan reeks because of the combination of his own sweat, saliva, lactate, urine, and semen that has dried on every inch of his clothing.
To atone for his misgivings, Ryan allows Tradd to beat him with one of the many pestles available for bludgeoning in the Metz Suite. For some reason, the sun appears for mere seconds.
I go to sleep.
My alarm goes off. I am happy. It's tailgating time.
After a trip to the VP (Village Pantry, not Dick Cheney) for some ice, coolers, and charcoal, Mike, Jim, Greg, and I arrive at the tailgating fields. They allowed cars in this time, which was good because we had Mike's parent's pimpin' conversion van, which I am now convinced is the only vehicle in which to arrive at tailgate fields. I start the day with a Red Bull and vodka. Little did I know that I will not change my drink throught the 6 hours of tailgating.
Greg decided to class up the tailgate with a bottle of Boone's. And by "class" I mean "gay."
Former IU campus bench press champion Andy "Spawn" Southard and wife Autumne show up, thus increasing the collective strength of the tailgate tenfold.
Jeremy "Uter Von" Widenhofer" and his wife Kristin (and fetus, which I am calling Frau) show up. Man, I hate Germans.
11:45am or so
Dr. Josh "Dog Slayer" Dowell, John "Senator" Zody, Dr. Josh "Still Happy-Go-Lucky" DaWalt, and DaWalt's cousin show up at the tailgate, thus bringing the collective IQ of the tailgate way up. Kids, if you want your offspring to be doctors, name them Josh and give them a surname that starts with a D.
Jessie, fresh off her trip to the Flemish Cap, regales people about a Nor'eastah and all the wicked lobstah she caught and the totally wicked bahs she went to in Dahchestah. Oh yeah, and the wicked stahm out on the wahta. Go Sawx!
Gemkeezi, Seleezi, Brendan, and JT show up, thus bringing the collective percentage of people at the tailgate who have lived in Montana way up.
The IU/Michigan game kicks off. It was the closest IU was the whole game. Greg, Ryan, and I head up to our seats. Ari and Lizzie sit in Jamie's seats, which are pretty sweet because they allow them to see the gigantism affecting #9's right leg. Look at the difference. He's not even a kicker. Disgusting. No wonder we haven't been to a bowl since 1993.
Greg, Ryan, and I head back to the van for a halftime beer. On the walk through the tailgate fields, we see the following happen: Boyfriend and Girlfriend are drunk. Girlfriend holds a six-pack of Dr. Pepper with one can left hanging in the plastic rings. Boyfriend realizes that this can must be kicked. Girlfriend readily agrees and holds can out in front of her. Boyfriend gets a 5-yard running start. Boyfriend kicks the shit out of the can. And Girlfriend's hand. The can flies about 20 feet in the air while Girlfriend wallows in pain. I catch the can, run it in for a touchdown and spike it.
Greg and I walk back into Memorial Stadium. Michigan has already scored 2 more TDs. The score is 34-3 at this point, and it will not change as IU comes through with the big most-of-second-half shutout of the #2 team in the nation.
A guy sitting about 8 rows in front of us with a Michigan hat on, who has been obnoxious the whole game finally sets me off. I walk down to where he is sitting. The conversation goes like this:
Me: "Hey, my buddies and I have a bet. What was your degree in from the University of Michigan?"
Eminem: "I don't have a --"
By that point I had already yelled back up to Greg, "We were right" and headed back up there. Eminem follows me so that he could explain that he isn't even a Michigan fan, but he bet on the game (and apparently bought a Michigan wool hat and a sweatshirt with Michigan colors, and his two friends bought a whole bunch of Michigan clothes). The best part of the conversation is when he says, "Hell, I barely graduated high school." We know.
Back at Metz Suite, many people take naps. I watch Tradd and Kara sleep. Morgan's friend Eric shows up.
Tradd rolls to his right. It's adorable when he does that.
Morgan, Eric, Jenn, Jim, Greg, and I head to Nick's to play some Sink. Most of the others follow about a half hour behind.
The drunk 21-year-old behind our table, without saying "excuse me," lifts Morgan's chair. Morgan disagrees with his actions and verbally communicates his feelings. Fisticuffs nearly ensue. This conversation does ensue:
21: "You'll be working for me one day."
Morgan: "So your plan once you graduate is to buy an international law firm?" Thankfully, it's IU, which means everyone is too laid back to fight. Thus, a truce is made and glasses are clinked.
Jenn becomes the second Sink rookie to fall victim to wily veterans. She and Jim head home. Morgan and I pretty much get laid by every chick in the bar, including our hot waitress who looks like that chick in Real Genius that the professor is banging. After Sink ends, I drink Red Bulls and vodka.
During a smoke break outside, Greg and I see a 65-year-old Michigan fan get booted from Nick's for talking back to a bartender. The cops show up. Sadly, I didn't see a cop slap a 65-year-old man.
Those of us left (Greg, Morgan, Eric, TG, Brian, Brandon, Mike, me) head to The Jungle Room. I drink a lot of Red Bulls and vodka.
Greg and Mike make sure to shove that "No Smoking" on the Jungle Room's porch in the Jungle Room's stupid face. I think the black and white pointilism is a nice touch.
Several of us go to Bamba's. Some jackhole comes in after us and tries to speak Spanish, yelling "nesito burrito" over and over again. I explain that the word he is looking for is "necessito," which means "I need." His friend asks me if I speak Spanish. I say "poco." He makes fun of me in Spanish, most likely because his penis was so huge.
I go to sleep for what I hopes would be more than 3 hours and 50 minutes.
I wake up. I immediately realize that I will not be going back to sleep because my heart is desperately trying to escape from my chest. I was certain that I was going to have a heart attack. And by heart attack, I mean the kind where your heart explodes.
8 of us arrive at Ladyman's Cafe for what will be our last visit ever (it closes forever on 12/10). The seating situation is such that we must take 4 2-seat tables.
We get our food.
Our plates are emptier than a child's stomach in Darfur. Too far?
Ari, Jessie, and I pile into The Blaab and drive back home, just a little heavier, a little dumber, a little happier, and a little more bruised than when we arrived a mere 43 hours earlier.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Monday, November 13, 2006
Just to keep you curious and hungry, these questions will be answered:
- Who bodyslammed Ari?
- Which Sink the Bismark rookies fell victim to the heady and skilled veterans?
- Did Dave really just say "trill" again?
- Did that jackass a few rows in front of me actually go to Michigan?
- Does that guy who almost got in a fight with Morgan plan on purchasing an international law firm upon graduating from IU?
- Did Jessie finally agree to a menage with a drunk coed?
- Did I have a heart attack?
Friday, November 10, 2006
I also don't have time for a full OC recap (especially considering there were new episodes Wednesday AND Thursday). Briefly, here's what's important:
- "Gay dad trumps slutty mom." Kaitlin Cooper utter this phrase while one of Luke's brothers shaved the other's chest in Kaitlin's room. You had to be there, I guess.
- While there was minor blood letting, Ryan did not kill Volchok. It turns out that Clyde "Kevin" Volchok is just as disturbed about the events that transpired the night he negligently homicided or possibly second-degree murdered Marissa Cooper. After this uncharacteristically heartfelt admission by Volchok, Ryan -- rather than kill him with a broken beer bottle, which would have apparently been alright with Volchok -- chose to let Volchok live with the pain of his actions for the rest of his life. Only Ryan Atwood can choose who lives or dies. Volchok turned himself in and will now be breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a very happy inmate, who may very well one day (without reason) make a sign that says "FBI Agent Chris Saviano, Stop Raping My Wife!" Tune in next week to find out.
- Taylor Townsend is fucking crazy and it's turning me on.
- Summer came back to Newport for Thanksgiving (which apparently happens 2 weeks early in Newport) and invited a bunch of vagabonds to the Cohens for Thanksgiving. One of the street urchins recognized the dog that Kaitlin Cooper had found on the street, and said, "I'm 90% sure that's my dog." He was 100% right.
Have a hell of a weekend while I'm pimpin' in the Metz Suite (in the Metz Suite).
This marks the second time in the last five years that one of my favorite beers has been mercilessly taken from me by the beer overlords. You may remember a time when you could buy Caffrey's, both in bars and in stores. I refer to that period in my life as the Salad Days. Then Coors purchased Caffrey's and decided that it was no longer going to import it because it might compete with (and destroy) Killian's, a beer that is (a) not made in Ireland, (b) tastes nothing like Caffrey's, and (c) completely sucks compared to the sweet, creamy taste of Caffrey's. (If I had known this when I was in Golden a few years ago, I wouldn't have been nearly so cordial on the Coors brewery tour.) So now if you want Caffrey's, you either have to go to the UK or order it at exorbitent prices to be shipped from the UK.
Now with Bell's, in order to get their sweet summer elixir (or any of their other beers), I will have to travel to another state. At least Bell's is offering a 15% discount at its brewery store for packaged beer for people with Illinois IDs.
You listen up Newcastle. So help me God, if you try to pull anything like this, I will wring your fat little neck. You're all I've got left.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Skater dude with half-pink hair to another skater: "So anyway, like I was saying, I took a fucking beer bottle and broke it over his nut sack."
--Bloomington, IN, Kirkwood & Grant
On a sidewalk in the rain at midnight on a Thursday:
Fat woman: "Oh my God. You're scared. "
Stocky bald man: "What…huh?!"
Fat woman: "You're scared that I actually care about you."
Stocky bald man: "I'm married."
Fat woman: "Wow, you are really scared that somebody actually cares about you."
Stocky bald man: "Hey, we just met yesterday, and you're not listening. I'm not scared. I'm married. "
Fat woman: "God, you are so full of shit. And so terrified."
Stocky bald man: "Are you sure you're not thinking of somebody else."
Fat woman: "It's sad to see a grown man this scared of affection."
--Chicago, North & Hudson
Guy drinking martini: "Martini's are like breasts....1 isn't enough, 2 is perfect, and 3 are way too many."
--LaGrange, IL, martini party
Eavesdroppers: RDC, DOV
10 year old boy (trying to impress a fellow classmate): "Yeah man, I got me some dice."
9 year old girl (obviously not interested): "Oh."
Boy: "I played dice with my uncle last night. Yeah, I won some money."
Boy: "Yeah, I play dice to get money for the ice cream truck."
Girl (in a voice that really shows how unimpressed she is): "My parents buy me ice cream."
--Ft. Wayne, IN, 4th grade classroom
Drunk twentysomething female to friend: "I like her. I do. She's nice. (slight pause) But she's just so horrible."
--Chicago, Brown Line train
Thirty-something woman to friends while listening to a band cover a Steve Miller Band song: "Dude, Steve Miller is the soundtrack of my life."
--Chicago, Gunther Murphy's, Ashland & Belmont
At a bachelorette party with a Halloween theme:
Girl dressed as a plug: "Yeah, I was totally bad in high school."
Girl dressed as a prisoner: "Yeah, but just in a rebellious kind of way."
Girl dressed as a Slim Jim: "I did all my drugs stuff while dating Mike."
Girl dressed as a plug: "Whatever, I did mine in high school and calmed down in college. But weed doesn't really count, you know? It's herbal, just like tea."
Girl dressed as a prisoner: "It's an herb, not herbal! I'm putting this on my friend's website! Ha!"
Eavesdropper: ½ pint
In line at IU Dance Marathon, 2:45am on a Saturday night/Sunday morning:
Drunk sorority girl: "Oh my god, did you guys hear about the Pi Phi that shit her pants and kept dancing?!"
--Bloomington, IN, IU Dance Marathon, HPER Building
During a deposition:
Q: "And if you could just give verbal responses to everything, because it's hard for her to take down a nod or shake of the head. Okay?"
A: (Witness nods head.)
Twentysomething female discussing former Cook County Board President John Stroger: "He looks like a noble turtle. I like him. If Disney had a movie about turtles, he would be the chief."
--Chicago, Kenmore & Diversey
Crowded L train during rush hour. A twentysomething guy and girl are having a coversation. The guy has been talking some useless babble about abstract art for a good five minutes:
Girl: "Can't we just talk about football?"
Guy: "You want to talk about the cutural impact of that barbaric game?"
Girl: "No. I am just tired of hearing about this and would rather talk about football."
--Chicago, Red Line train
Late 20s female to another similar female: "He's just mad that he never gets his asshole licked."
--Chicago, Chi-Town Tap, Lincoln & Kenmore
Fortysomething Indiana football fan: "What are we up, 23?"
Nearly 29-year-old Indiana football fan: "Yeah, 30-7."
Fortysomething (dead serious): "So 3 touchdowns and a field goal and they take the lead. (pause) Shit."
--Bloomington, IN, Memorial Stadium west side concourse
Hungover student: "Dude, what does the word 'extant' mean?"
Hit student: "It's like, southern for 'extent' or something."
Sober student: "It means that it makes the other thing, like, whatever."
Hungover student: "Oh. Yeah, okay."
--Bloomington, IN, Fetid apartment, 3rd and Dunn
Thirtysomething man: "So you drink Pabst?"
Old man: "Oh yeah, Pabst is good beer. Oldstyle's another one I drink a lot. That's good beer."
Thirtysomething: "I used to drink a lot of PBR in college, along with Milwaukee's Best and Old Milwaukee."
Old man: "Milwaukee's Best and Old Milwaukee -- those are good beers."
Thirtysomething: "I used to drink Hamm's now and then, too."
Old man (taken aback): "Hamm's? What? That's horrible beer."
--Chicago, Shenanigans, Division St.
Twentysomething female, while stroking her dog's ears: "After [our dog] passes -- which will be never -- I want to get her stuffed and I want to get her ears made into a coin purse."
--Chicago, Kenmore & Diversey
Teacher: "Contractions combine two words with an apostrophe. Did plus not forms didn't. We plus would forms we'd."
Student 1: "Man, weed, some people call that the green stuff."
Student 2: "Yeah, you can smoke it in a pipe."
Student 1: "My neighbor be coming around asking for the green stuff."
Student 2: "You can roll it up like a cigarette."
--Ft. Wayne, IN, 4th grade classroom
While 60 Minutes plays across a TV screen, totally serious townie: "How long is this show?"
--Bloomington, IN, Smith & Dunn
Sixtysomething lawyer to another lawyer: "I had jurors sitting there looking at me and nodding 'yes yes yes,' and what do they come back with? Twelve dollars and seventy cents."
--Chicago, LaSalle & Madison
This one technically isn't eavesdropping, but it's worthy of inclusion:
"I am checking the homework box to see who hasn’t turned in their homework. Paige comes up to me and tells me that her homework is finished but is in her locker. I tell her to go get it and turn it in. She goes to her locker, so I assume she has turned it in. Later as I am checking the homework box again, I notice that she hasn’t turned her homework in yet. I again send her to her locker to get her homework. This time she comes up to me and tells me her homework has brown stuff on it. I assume that it is a coffee spill, Chinese food or something along those lines. Paige then again goes to her locker but returns with no homework. I am starting to wonder why she won’t bring it into our classroom. She comes to our doorway and motions for me to come out to the hallway. I go out to the hall and she hands me her paper which indeed was covered with brown stuff. Once the paper is in my hands, I take a little whiff of it because I really can’t believe what she has just handed me — a poop covered paper. I of course start gagging and she explains to me that her dog took a GIANT dump inside her book bag and she didn’t realize it until she was on the bus and smelled something rank. I really couldn’t believe that she handed me a paper that was covered with feces. I did the only normal thing; I handed it back to her and told her to put it back in her book bag."
--Ft. Wayne, IN, elementary school (public, obviously)
Technically this isn't an eavesdropping either, but it's pretty funny.
Text message to GMYH on a random weekday: "I'm sitting on the toilet @ work & the guy in the next stall answers his phone . . . formally . . . has a business conversation."
--Cincinnati, Procter & Gamble
Thanks to everyone who contributed. If you hear anything hilarious, make sure to email it to firstname.lastname@example.org for inclusion in Midwestern Eavesdropping.
Also, to reiterate, MWE applies not only to those inane things overheard within the confines of the glorious Midwest, but also to anything overheard by current or former Midwesterners in other parts of the country and world. Don't hold back just because of geography.
Also, I am going out of town tomorrow, so Hair Band Friday will not be appearing on this blog. I love you all. Go Hoosiers.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
In a career move that rivals the schoolgirl outfit -- and a life move that rivals escape from her mother's womb -- Britney Spears filed for divorce from Kevin Federline. The reason? "Irreconcilable differences." I got thinking to myself: "GMYH, you handsome, underappreciated devil, what was it that could not be reconciled?" The answer? Probably too many things to count. Nonetheless, I have come up with some possibilities:
- Britney wants more children. K-Fed already has twelve.
- K-Fed's new album, "Playing With Fire" (released 10/31), sold only four copies, all of which were bought by K-Fed himself, to be given to Britney for her birthday, Christmas, Mother's Day, and on their anniversary.
- Britney wants a monogomous relationship, but K-Fed wants to date himself.
- He was a backup dancer.
- Britney had hopes of being a stay-at-home mom, but it turns out that K-Fed's only sources of income are Britney and his lifetime supply of Newports via endorsement. Despite K-Fed's elaborate theories to the contrary, babies can't live off of cigarettes.
- Before K-Fed, Britney was a best-selling, saucy little southern girl who made out with Madonna. After K-Fed, Britney was an infant-endangering, bon-bon-eating redneck who made out with K-Fed.
- Circling jobs in the LA Times classifieds for husband who sleeps on the couch all day gets old after 780 days in a row.
- K-Fed pushed for (and got) the name Jayden for their second son, which is pretty funny considering most people don't name boys after female strippers from Ft. Lauderdale with C-section scars.
- Sean Preston is nearing the age where he forms memories.
- The man was backup dancer.
- When K-Fed says "that's fire," which is somewhere between 150 and 200 times a day, he is sometimes referring to the feeling he gets while urinating.
- Britney never wants to answer "yes" when one of her children asks: "Some of the kids at school say daddy was in 'You Got Served.' Is that true?"
- Britney never wants to answer "yes" when asked by anyone: "Wasn't your husband in 'You Got Served'?"
- Britney never wants to answer "yes" when asked by anyone: "Wait, aren't you married to Kevin Federline?"
- $600-a-day wifebeater habit.
- K-Fed refers to everything in terms of "PopoZao." For instance, "Hey babe, after I finish this Busch Light, what say you and me go in the bedroom and make some PopoZao?" or "Babe, where's the plunger? I just PopoZao'd all up in this toilet." or "Aww, come here Sean Preston, my little PopoZao." or "Yo babe, toss me another PopoZao. The PopoZao's about to PopoZAO."
- K-Fed says, "This a Brazilian ass shaker right here" before every meal.
- "I'll pay you back. I swear to God." gets old after the 1500th six pack of Hamm's.
- K-Fed was a backup dancer.
- Look at him for Christ's sake.
Apparently Britney and K-Fed have no community property, which means that a prenup is probably in place. At least Britney didn't pull a Jessica Simpson. But then again, Nick Lachey was a decent human being who deserved some extra cash for having to put up with "I didn't know buffaloes could fly." K-Fed is a dirty, possibly disease-ridden leech who deserves to get hit by the bus he can't see because his Von Dutch hat is tilted too far to the side. Is it pathetic that I have this much contempt for a complete stranger? No.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
- Guy attempts to do Superman dive onto bed, fails.
- 1982 Lakers rap song. Wow, this is bad. Michael Cooper, where are you now?
- Guy who talks on cell phone during college lecture gets what he deserves.
- Hasselhoff outtakes. From Knight Rider. Nuff said.
- Marriage proposal at Washington Wizards game goes awry.
- Fake TLC commercial about kids using computers.
- Fake Pillsbury commercial.
- Fake anti-smoking commerical.
- Clip from foreign talk show where host can't stop laughing while his guests are crying, probably because the male guest sounds like Mickey Mouse. I might have posted a link to this before, but it's just so damn funny that it must be viewed as many times as possible.
- Clip from QVC from caller who loves porn.
- Some terrible, angry cover of Technotronic's "Pump Up The Jam" by a woman who looks like Magenta from Rocky Horror Picture Show.
- Guy tries to put dollar in anchorwoman's boobs.
- Indian kid (or possibly midget) break dances and such while some creepy dude with a mustache just lays on a couch.
- Motorized beer pong (not ping pong) table.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Up: I went to The Skybox (which is the name of an apartment where several younger Pi Kapps live), where I tailgated with the likes of Davidson, Huffman, Popper, McClure (Jon, not Adam or Troy), Hess, Grant, and Garfield. Wassel and beer were consumed.
Down: The game was on ESPN 360, which is only available online to customers of certain ISPs, so we listened to the first half on the radio.
Up: We got to hear the sweet voice of Don Fisher call the game.
Down: In an attempt to duplicate MSU's victory over Northwestern, we spotted Minnesota at 35-0 lead.
Up: Morgan "Crazy Legs" Hirst text messaged me to inform me of a link to the game that didn't require the patronization of the aforementioned certain ISPs.
Down: We got to watch the second half.
Up: Tradd's special ladyfriend Kara and her roommate Silke held a pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving dinner at their house for 19 people. It was unbelievably good. Appetizers were abundant. For the main course, they had turkey, mashed potatoes, 8 boxes of stuffing (or "dressing," if you're wrong), gravy (courtesy of Tradd -- great f'n gravy man), candied yams, green bean casserole, apple sauce, cranberry sauce, and probably some other stuff I'm forgetting. For dessert, there was something from heaven called pumpkin crunch, as well as apple crisp (courtesy of Jester), tollhouse pie, and pumpkin roll (which means that it was some sort of pumpkin-flavored roll filled with icing).
Down: Due to a series of chemical inbalances, I was unable to stop eating. After the appetizers, I was full. After the main course, I was full beyond the point of comfort. Yet I . . . could . . . not . . . stop . . . eating. Dessert ensured a Fogo-de-Chao-esque grogginess and a surprisingly surmountable feeling of regret, given the deliciousness of it all. One more bite of food or sip of liquid and I firmly believe that my stomach would have exploded like that dude in Seven.
Up: Later on -- after the gastrointestinal discomfort had mostly subsided -- Jester and I went to Lincoln Tap Room to "enjoy" some drinks with the likes of Ari, Kyla, Alex, Brian, Brian's roommate Dan, Lynn, Lynn's boyfriend (?) Peter, Katie B., Dave, Julie, and possibly others. Among the topics discussed were: the weight and health of Dennis Haskins (not bad); why most (but not all) Ohio State fans suck (most didn't go there); Detroit (rock city); how to catch a bat that finds its way into your house (motorcycle helmet and catcher's mitt); the Roanoke, Indiana bar scene and ways not to fit in in said scene (be a city boy); the proper person with whom to travel to bars in or around Roanoke, Indiana (Lizzie); gang warfare in or around Roanoke, Indiana (existent, but laughable); how long it will take before Ozzie Guillen says something that gets him fired (any day now); the relative merits of the Cubs hiring Lou Pinella over Joe Girardi (Pinella will be gone in 5 years, Girardi could have been a lifer (in Cubs terms, that means 3-4 years), but that's indicative of the genius of Andy McPhail and Jim Hendry); and the fact that Wrigley Field is where managers go to die (in less than a minute, we were able to come up with Dusty Baker, Don Baylor, Bruce Kimm, Jim Riggleman, Jim Lefebvre, Jim Frey, Tom Trebelhorn, and Don Zimmer -- and those guys only go back 20 years, and we still missed a couple others from the past 20 years).
Down: With the poundage of food resting heavily in my stomach, there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that I was going to get drunk.
Up: Sunday morning I had breakfast with Dan "Piss And" Binegar and some of his compatriots. We ate at Ann Sather (I hadn't been there before) up in Andersonville, and it was delicious.
Down: In an effort to duplicate their record-breaking comeback against the Cardinals a few weeks ago, the Bears once again committed 6 turnovers. This time, however, they did not overcome those 6 turnovers, thereby getting depantsed by one of the worst teams in the NFL and ruining their undefeated season.
Up: The '85 Bears lost to the Dolphins as well, so I have no reason to believe that the Bears will lose again this season.
Up: GMYH reader and fellow Scorpio Kevin "The Motherfuckers Act Like They Forgot About" Yeh turned the big 3-0 on Sunday. Happy birthday Scorpioooooooo!
And Away: Yeh now has nothing but death to look forward to.
Friday, November 03, 2006
And with those words, the life of a reckless driving Eastern Bloc surfer has all but ended. Maybe not last night. Maybe not next Thursday. Probably not on Veterans Day. But the days left on this Earth are numbered for Clyde (or whatever his first name is) Volchok. Why, you ask? Because Ryan Atwood is back, and his fists of fury are still stained with the blood of an overmatched amateur cage fighter.
What the shit is GMYH talking about? Sadly, aside from Volchok's first name, these are all true life facts from the virgin episode of Season Four of The OC. What started off as one of the darkest -- and worst -- OC episodes in recent memory ended with the promise of a new day -- a new day of death.
It all starts 5 months after Ryan carried Marissa's lifeless body from the carnage of a Volchok-caused car wreck. Ryan is now living a Boondock Saints existence in the utility closet of a dive bar whose lighting is sparse, but dramatic. In addition to his job working at the bar, Ryan is participating in what I assume is unsanctioned cage fighting in the dank, dark warehouse next door to the bar. He chooses to fight guys that he knows will kick his ass -- or more appropriately, guys that he lets kick his ass. Ryan Atwood's ass cannot be kicked, not even by Ryan Atwood. Furthermore, he doesn't even take the money he is offered by the guy running the fight. That's right, he fights for the love of fighting, walking around with an always freshly battered face to remind him of the pain of a love lost forever. Also, he hasn't told anyone about it, probably because that's the first rule.
Kaitlin Cooper is still a manipulative little trick with bedroom eyes and a heart of tar, but now she has thigh-high black patent leather boots and two lackeys, Brad and Eric Ward. Who? Oh yeah, they're the brothers of Luke (once-disagreeable water polo player who used to date Marissa Cooper and got in a lot of fights with Ryan but then for some reason became friends with Ryan and helped him defeat Oliver but then he found out his dad was gay and then he moved to Portland after he got drunk and wrecked a car because he was banging Julie Cooper but then she decided to marry Caleb Nichol -- yeah, that Luke). For some reason they ride their bikes to school alongside of her while she walks. Oh, and she still talks like she's asking for the taste slapped to be out of her mouth. "Are yau kedding may?"
Seth is working in comic book store, which I think is a bit of a stretch. One of his co-workers is named Leon. I found this to be the most important revelation of the episode.
Summer is off at Brown, and she has become a save-the-world hippie, although she still dresses like a Newpsie. She did have a sweet t-shirt that said "More Trees Less Bush," or something like that. In addition to referring to herself as post-ironic, she has befriended a guy at Brown -- the kind of overexaggerated hippie who shits in a bucket and doesn't wipe so that he can save water and trees -- who looks like he smells bad and is clearly too dumb to get into Brown in real life, but does have a dijereedoo, which is apparently not only for Aborigines anymore. In fact, it is implied by Josh Schwartz and McG that there are people in the world whose idea of having fun is sitting in an Ivy League dorm room and jamming with a bongo, clavas, and a dijereedoo, all while not getting drunk or high. The hippie dude actually said, "Your turn to jam on the dij'." I wish I made that up. Sadly, it was followed soon thereafter with "Wherever you go, there you are," said with no hint of irony. I think I should write for The OC.
Saucy tart Taylor Townsend is pretending to live in Paris, but is actually still in Newport. Her reasons and motives for doing so are unclear at this point, but I'm guessing it involves candle wax, tube socks, and the new Fiona Apple CD.
Dr. Roberts, in addition to supplying The Beatles with LSD, is two-timing Julie with his ex-wife. Yep, the Step Monster. Kaitlin sees them together, and blackmails Dr. Roberts into paying for the previously mentioned slutty boots.
There was not all that much that actually happened in the episode. Summer comes home for the weekend to help Seth figure out a plan to get Ryan out of Fight Club. As you would expect, they trick him into coming to the comic book store, where Sandy, Kirsten, and Leon are waiting to show Ryan a comic book that Seth made about Ryan's coming to Newport. As you probably guessed, this convinces Ryan to leave Fight Club and start to grieve for Marissa. The thing is, grief and blinding rage are one in the same for Ryan Atwood.
Luckily Julie hired a private dick, probably DeFino, to find Volchok's whereabouts (probably a cavern somewhere with a lot of wifebeaters, bottles of beer, roofies, and fear). Rather than hand over the file to the cops, so that they can arrest the man who murdered her daughter, she gives the file to Ryan, knowing that he will draw and quarter Volchok, sending one limb to each of the four corners of the continental United States, actually throwing his torso into space, and crushing his skull into dust with his bare hands as a warning to anyone else who might be thinking about killing Marissa. At first Ryan doesn't take the file. But after the whole comic book thing, Ryan gets in one last fight at Fight Club, turning himself from Gerry Cooney into a wily Pikey, beating the guy who had previously beaten him up. When they finally peeled the dude off the mat, all that was left was a pool of blood and a pile of unconnected teeth. No bones. No flesh. No hair. Just blood and teeth. As the episode ends, Ryan and Julie are standing over Marissa's grave. He takes the Volchok file, and utters those five words that spell the end for Volchok: "I have to do this."
As you probably noticed, there was no Midwestern Eavesdropping this week. I have a ton of submissions, but I had depositions the entire day yesterday, so next week's MWE is going to be bigger than King Kong's ding dong. Also, Hair Band Friday is canceled this week because I got to go to a mediation all day in Kane County (go Cougs). But rest assured, while there, I did nothing but try to figure out the answers to the following questions:
1. It's a given that Ryan will kill Volchok, but will Fox have the balls to show Ryan disconnecting Volchok's spine from his flesh and then using it as a whip to lash Volchok to death?
2. Will Summer and the hippie dude hook up? If so, will I stop watching The OC?
3. With Summer in Rhode Island, will Taylor make a move on Seth? If so, how many different Kama Sutra positions will be involved?
4. Do I actually give a shit if Dr. Roberts is cheating on Julie?
5. Will Josh Schwartz and McG wise up and bring Marissa Cooper back from the dead? Or at least bring her back as the emaciated but loveable rug-munching ghost searching Newport for a light meal and helping Seth solve petty crimes along the way?