Friday
Obviously the big news Friday was that Paris Hilton was sentenced to 45 days in jail for violating her probation. Unfortunately she will be partitioned from the other inmates at the LA County Jail, presumably for her own safety, thus ensuring that she will not get murdered by a fellow inmate within the first three seconds of being there. Too bad, too. I have what I feel is a legitimate fear that one day a living spawn will crawl from her decrepit, filthy, cavernous womb, proclaiming its sense of entitlement upon its exit. Frankly, I think I've had enough Hilton to last a lifetime. I'm not saying I would be overjoyed if Paris's heart happened to meet the wrong end of a shank, but I certainly wouldn't not laugh my ass off.
Due to the big news and impending riots and looting, Jester and I decided to stay in Friday night. We ordered some takeout from Pat's, although we didn't go with the thin crust pizza, which, according to their awning and website, is the best in Chicago. Jester went with meat lasagna, and I went with chicken parmigiana. Jester wasn't enamored with her choice, but my feelings about lasagna are like my feelings towards pizza and sex: it pretty much rules all the time, even when it hurts a little. You know who also loved lasagna? Garfield. He's gotta be dead by now, but man that little motherfucker loved lasagna almost as much as sending Nermal to Abu Dhabi via post. I hope Nermal's dead. My chicken parm was bountiful: two breaded chicken breasts covered with melted mozzarella over a bed of spaghetti. Good shit.
Saturday
On Saturday morning Jester and I awoke with vigor. We did some shopping -- gotta support the local businesses -- and then stopped by Reed's apartment to see his new motorcycle. Despite my idle threats, he has not yet purchased a sidecar.
Round about 3pm, Jester, Gregerson, and I went to the OTB downtown at Jackson and Franklin to catch some horse racing, including the Derby. As predicted, Gregerson and I made various bets on the Derby (trifectas, exactas, etc.), probably totaling $40-$50 each. We won nothing. Jessie made a $5 bet on Street Sense to show and obviously won. Both of my trifecta boxes had two of the top three horses, but that and a quarter will get me a phone call in 1985.
From the OTB, Jessie used her $6 in winnings to treat me to McDonald's, and then the three of us headed to Navy Pier for Bier on the Pier 2. For those of you unfamiliar with beer fests, here's the deal: you pay a set fee, and they give you a 6-ounce glass, and you sample as much beer as you want for 4 hours from a multitude of distributors. Having been to Bloomington's Beer Fest several times while at IU, I had some lofty expectations. After all, B-town's fest is the largest in the Midwest. Frankly, I was disappointed with Bier on the Pier. The lines were too long, it was poorly set up, they could have had twice as many vendors, and there were not nearly as many glass rinsing stations as there should have been. Also, I consumed the worst beer I've ever had in my life. Does anyone remember Michelob Golden from the mid '90s? Apparently it is being remarketed under the name Zamkowe, which may or may not mean "taker of souls" in Polish. Holy shit, this beer was horrible. After I took a sip, I looked at the dude who just poured it for me and simply begged "why?" as tears welled up in my eyes. It tasted like gravel mixed with barley mixed with baby spit-up mixed with death. It was the only beer the whole night that I poured out before finishing. Even though I had only taken two sips, the taste lingered in such a manner that it tainted the next few beers I tried. I actually just puked thinking about it.
At some point Kyla and Alex showed up, and then a little later Chenandler Bong showed up. As the night drew to a close, we hit the Coors table for some banquet beer and Blue Moon. Kyla and Gregerson took a particular liking to the Zima varieties, making a nice Zima-infused sprint to the finish as the time wound down on the fest.
What's the best way for six drunk assholes to get from Navy Pier to my brother's apartment to watch the Mayweather/De la Hoya fight? A stretched white limo, of course. It made sense at the time, and it made us feel important knowing that between seven and ten people inside my brother's apartment saw us stumble out of a limo.
I found the fight itself to be mediocre. There were only a couple of good punches landed, appearing as if both boxers were just going through the motions while collecting their multimillion dollar paychecks.
Kyla bet me that Oscar De la Hoya was closer to 40 than 35, which was such a ridiculous bet, since everyone knows he was born in 1973. Nonetheless, she kept going on and on about how he was at least 37 1/2. I'm assuming my $20 is in the mail.
When Jester and I returned home, she headed to bed, while I dined on the spaghetti from Pat's from the night before as I watched Clerks on Showtime and cyberstalked nearly every single person on MySpace, except myself.
Sunday
After some breakfast at Clarke's (where we actually had good service for once),
Jester and I hit up the dog park, where Tracey, Christoff, Jodie, and many others were hanging out. One of those many others was a skinny Asian girl wearing a skirt that barely covered her vagina and platform heels that suggested she recently had sex with a man who paid her money to do so, who was there with some schnauzer. In an obvious homage to the Vietnamese hooker in Full Metal Jacket or perhaps Luther Campbell's gratuitous use of said hooker's vernacular in 1989's "Me So Horny," Christoff suggested that her dog's name must be Long Time. Think about what she might say in order to tell her dog her feelings of affection towards it. Now laugh.
I spent the afternoon like I spend every Sunday afternoon: writing my sketch for my Second City class while watching Pee Wee's Big Adventure, wearing nothing but a tan banana hammock and clown face paint.
Obviously the big news Friday was that Paris Hilton was sentenced to 45 days in jail for violating her probation. Unfortunately she will be partitioned from the other inmates at the LA County Jail, presumably for her own safety, thus ensuring that she will not get murdered by a fellow inmate within the first three seconds of being there. Too bad, too. I have what I feel is a legitimate fear that one day a living spawn will crawl from her decrepit, filthy, cavernous womb, proclaiming its sense of entitlement upon its exit. Frankly, I think I've had enough Hilton to last a lifetime. I'm not saying I would be overjoyed if Paris's heart happened to meet the wrong end of a shank, but I certainly wouldn't not laugh my ass off.
Due to the big news and impending riots and looting, Jester and I decided to stay in Friday night. We ordered some takeout from Pat's, although we didn't go with the thin crust pizza, which, according to their awning and website, is the best in Chicago. Jester went with meat lasagna, and I went with chicken parmigiana. Jester wasn't enamored with her choice, but my feelings about lasagna are like my feelings towards pizza and sex: it pretty much rules all the time, even when it hurts a little. You know who also loved lasagna? Garfield. He's gotta be dead by now, but man that little motherfucker loved lasagna almost as much as sending Nermal to Abu Dhabi via post. I hope Nermal's dead. My chicken parm was bountiful: two breaded chicken breasts covered with melted mozzarella over a bed of spaghetti. Good shit.
Saturday
On Saturday morning Jester and I awoke with vigor. We did some shopping -- gotta support the local businesses -- and then stopped by Reed's apartment to see his new motorcycle. Despite my idle threats, he has not yet purchased a sidecar.
Round about 3pm, Jester, Gregerson, and I went to the OTB downtown at Jackson and Franklin to catch some horse racing, including the Derby. As predicted, Gregerson and I made various bets on the Derby (trifectas, exactas, etc.), probably totaling $40-$50 each. We won nothing. Jessie made a $5 bet on Street Sense to show and obviously won. Both of my trifecta boxes had two of the top three horses, but that and a quarter will get me a phone call in 1985.
From the OTB, Jessie used her $6 in winnings to treat me to McDonald's, and then the three of us headed to Navy Pier for Bier on the Pier 2. For those of you unfamiliar with beer fests, here's the deal: you pay a set fee, and they give you a 6-ounce glass, and you sample as much beer as you want for 4 hours from a multitude of distributors. Having been to Bloomington's Beer Fest several times while at IU, I had some lofty expectations. After all, B-town's fest is the largest in the Midwest. Frankly, I was disappointed with Bier on the Pier. The lines were too long, it was poorly set up, they could have had twice as many vendors, and there were not nearly as many glass rinsing stations as there should have been. Also, I consumed the worst beer I've ever had in my life. Does anyone remember Michelob Golden from the mid '90s? Apparently it is being remarketed under the name Zamkowe, which may or may not mean "taker of souls" in Polish. Holy shit, this beer was horrible. After I took a sip, I looked at the dude who just poured it for me and simply begged "why?" as tears welled up in my eyes. It tasted like gravel mixed with barley mixed with baby spit-up mixed with death. It was the only beer the whole night that I poured out before finishing. Even though I had only taken two sips, the taste lingered in such a manner that it tainted the next few beers I tried. I actually just puked thinking about it.
At some point Kyla and Alex showed up, and then a little later Chenandler Bong showed up. As the night drew to a close, we hit the Coors table for some banquet beer and Blue Moon. Kyla and Gregerson took a particular liking to the Zima varieties, making a nice Zima-infused sprint to the finish as the time wound down on the fest.
What's the best way for six drunk assholes to get from Navy Pier to my brother's apartment to watch the Mayweather/De la Hoya fight? A stretched white limo, of course. It made sense at the time, and it made us feel important knowing that between seven and ten people inside my brother's apartment saw us stumble out of a limo.
I found the fight itself to be mediocre. There were only a couple of good punches landed, appearing as if both boxers were just going through the motions while collecting their multimillion dollar paychecks.
Kyla bet me that Oscar De la Hoya was closer to 40 than 35, which was such a ridiculous bet, since everyone knows he was born in 1973. Nonetheless, she kept going on and on about how he was at least 37 1/2. I'm assuming my $20 is in the mail.
When Jester and I returned home, she headed to bed, while I dined on the spaghetti from Pat's from the night before as I watched Clerks on Showtime and cyberstalked nearly every single person on MySpace, except myself.
Sunday
After some breakfast at Clarke's (where we actually had good service for once),
Jester and I hit up the dog park, where Tracey, Christoff, Jodie, and many others were hanging out. One of those many others was a skinny Asian girl wearing a skirt that barely covered her vagina and platform heels that suggested she recently had sex with a man who paid her money to do so, who was there with some schnauzer. In an obvious homage to the Vietnamese hooker in Full Metal Jacket or perhaps Luther Campbell's gratuitous use of said hooker's vernacular in 1989's "Me So Horny," Christoff suggested that her dog's name must be Long Time. Think about what she might say in order to tell her dog her feelings of affection towards it. Now laugh.I spent the afternoon like I spend every Sunday afternoon: writing my sketch for my Second City class while watching Pee Wee's Big Adventure, wearing nothing but a tan banana hammock and clown face paint.
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1 comment:
Not to correct you or anything but Paris spells hot in an unusual (retarded) way. She spells it hott. I know. I want to punch her too.
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