Thursday, May 29, 2008

Miracle Fruit

I don't know if any of you mofos have heard about Synsepalum dulcificum, aka the "miracle fruit," but sweet (literally) Jesus, it is intriguing. The New York Times ran an article about it, and I am extremely curious. Apparently, you eat one of these small fruits and it turns off your sour and bitter taste buds for a couple hours, so everything tastes sweet. Imagine the possibilities:
  • A person turning 21 no longer has to live in fear of the Three Wise Men, other than perhaps the fear of death because all shots will taste like Chuckles. Everyone will die.
  • I can eat Swiss cheese, mushrooms, and Mounds bars (even at the same time) without rocketing vomit all over Jessie. In fact, I can also eat vomit.
  • Imodium sales will skyrocket because eating more than 5 BW-3's "blazing" wings in one sitting is eminently possible.
  • Hardees will finally start to make up some ground.
  • If life gives you lemons you already have lemonade.
  • Feta and bleu cheese no longer taste like your feet, unless of course your feet taste like white chocolate.
  • Drinking urine? Not so bad. Take that, Bear Grylls.
  • Americans somehow get fatter and healthier at the same time from all that broccoli.
  • Spoiled milk is a thing of the past.
  • Three words: Malort drinking contest.

Midwestern Eavesdropping - 5/29/08

Here you go:

Twentysomething librarian: "I don't like creamy shots."
--Chicago, Matilda Bar, 3101 N. Sheffield
Eavesdroppers: Tron, $2 Dolla, Blonder

Extremely drunk twentysomething male at a house party: "Smoking is keeping me alive."
--Chicago, 3417 N. Seminary
Eavesdropper: GMYH

60-year-old obese man to washed up middle aged couple during Indy 500 Bump Day: "I feel like this is my 7th childhood, sitting here smoking this cigar. I might as well be at my mother's bosom."
--Indianapolis, Indianapolis Motor Speedway
Eavesdropper: Kazda

Twentysomething female at house party: "Why'd you wake up the guy who was sleeping?"
Extremely drunk twentysomething male: "I didn't. I just stacked beers on him."
--Chicago, 3417 N. Seminary
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Bride-to-be discussion of upcoming bachelor party with groom-to-be: "As you don't LICK pootenanny..."
--Chicago, Will's Northwoods Inn, 3030 N. Racine
Eavesdropper: Gregerson

Extremely drunk twentysomething male to friend who repeated pushed drunk man down when he tried to get up from a couch: "The more you punish me...Let's get a burrito."
--Chicago, 3417 N. Seminary
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Drunk dude hitting on two teachers in Wrigley Field bleachers: "There's really nothing better than beer and cupcakes. I'm just sayin'. I'm just sayin'."
--Chicago, Wrigley Field, 1060 W. Addison
Eavesdropper: The Loose-Lipped Lithuanian

3 guys walking in tailgating parking lot before baseball game. One wears a giant stuffed hot dog hat. One of his buddies angrily says: "No, the bet was that you wear the hat the WHOLE game."
--Chicago, U.S. Cellular Field, 333 W. 35th
Eavesdropper: GMYH

While listening to "Fallen Angel" by Poison:
Dude #1: "This is without question Poison's best song."
Dude #2: "Oh I beg to differ. 'Fallen Angel' is their best song."
--Chicago, Diversey & Racine
Eavesdropper: Gregerson

Female #1 talks to several co-workers: "So she starts vomiting her own poo all over the couch."
Female #2 is walking by and says: "I hope you're talking about your dog."
--Chicago, Wacker & Madison

Eavesdropper: GMYH

Thanks to all who contributed. Keep up the good work. When you overhear something hilarious or that can easily be take out of context, email it to, and rest assured it will appear in the next Midwestern Eavesdropping.

Memorial Day and The Like

While technically the weekend lasted only from Friday through Monday, I have been living the high life since Tuesday. Here is a painfully long recap of the last week.

The Rocks trivia team Kopechne's Revenge (comprised of me, Gregerson, Chenandler Bong, and Gregerson's friends Nick and Andy) toppled the competition to take first place. The victory was bittersweet, however, as it was Andy's last trivia night before he moves to Cincinnati, where he will take bar review classes with the goal of passing Ohio's bar examination this July. I begged him to rethink his career path, pleading for him to "look at me and tell me if I look like a fucking happy person, you selfish son of a bitch." I fear for his well-being.

Goni and I went to the Sox/Indians game, where we had the pleasure of sitting in a box for free. Aside from 2 Jermaine Dye home runs and a Sox victory, the obvious highlight was when a foul ball off the bat of A.J. Pierzynski came screaming into our box, caromed off some woman's chest, bounced off a hi-top table behind the seats in the box, and fell softly into my outstretched hand, after which I raised both of my hands and let out a primal, "Yeaaaaahhhhh!" Apparently a chest bruise was enough of a souvenir for the woman because she flatly refused my offer to take the ball home for herself. Thus, I am now the owner of my first major league foul or fair ball.

Along with 23,000 of my closest friends, I ran in the 3.5-mile JP Morgan Chase Corporate Challenge. I guess I shouldn't say "ran," since it was almost impossible to run due to the number of people, but I did travel 3.5 miles on foot in the great name of corporate greed.

After work, a large group of us headed up to the Hop Leaf for Christoff and Lutzow's birthday celebration. For those of you unfamiliar with the Hop Leaf, it is located in Chicago's Andersonville neighborhood. A water tower with a Swedish flag lets everyone know that Andersonville's allegiance is still to King Gustav. There is also a sizeable lesbian population in Andersonville, although, as far as I know, there is no corresponding water tower with a money shot of Portia de Rossi.

You may recall last year's shit show at the Brauhaus. While there is no "das boot" at the Hop Leaf, there are hundreds of beer choices, many of which are in the 8-9% alcohol by volume range. In addition to the many excellent beer choices, I was pleasantly surprised at how good the food was. Everyone at our table of 10 raved about their food, and I was no exception, as I had ordered the grilled boar chop, which comes with a ragout of boar shoulder. It was orgasmic. Having never had boar before, I can honestly say that from here on out, I will eat nothing but boar. While waiting at the bar for a table, several of us ordered the Belgian-style "mussels for two." If you were to look up "scavengers" in a dictionary, there should by now be a picture of Christoff, Lutzow, Jessie, Katie, Gregerson, and me weeping openly as we abolished mussels from the corner of the bar at the Hop Leaf. Also, while there, I was informed by Dan Weeser* that the new Indiana Jones movie involves aliens. Nice work, Lucas. I think I know what he was trying to say: "We're the aliens, man. We're the savages." I can't wait to see the next two Indiana Jones movies.

After we had our fill of high-potency beer and wild game at the Hop Leaf, we all headed south to Will's Northwoods Inn for some regular beer and some darts. Tamales and popcorn were eaten. Beer was drunk. Darts were aimlessly thrown in the general direction of a dartboard. Chairs were knocked over on accident, twice. Good times were had.

Saturday brought with it yet another Sox game. I was to attend the game with Crazy Legs Hirst and his friends Hans and John (no relation). Before the game, however, I met up with Mr. 6000 and Mr. 10,000 for some tailgating. For some reason they were not dressed up as Ricky Bobby and Cal Naughton, Jr. Nonetheless, I found their company enjoyable.

Consider sitting near me next time you head over to Comiskey. Around the 6th or 7th inning, Nick Swisher lined a foul ball down the left field line. It bounced into the crowd, causing a 400-pound middle-aged man to fly several rows to tackle a twentysomething female sitting in the row behind us, causing no one to catch the ball, causing the ball to roll right under Hans's seat and into his hands. Then the 400-pound man sat in the row in front of us for about 10 minutes, apparently believing that Hans was going to give him the baseball because, you know, mauling a young woman somehow meant that Hans was indebted to this man.

After the game, Crazy Legs, Hans, and John headed to a bar of some sort, and I headed home because I had to go to a birthday party of a friend of mine named Heather who was in my Second City show. The party was at Blue Stem, a martini bar on Irving Park just east of Damen with a female bartender (who may also be the owner) who took martini orders in a soup-nazi-like fashion. The menu had as many different martinis as Denise Huxtable had hairstyles. One, however, was less favorable to the martini nazi than the others. When one woman tried to order an appletini, she was told "no" and that the appletini should have been removed from the menu. There was a noticeable lack of Australians.

I couldn't handle the fact that everyone had an American accent (read: I was booted because I was not served an appletini), so I grabbed Jester, threw her over one of my shoulders, grabbed Tracey, threw her over the other shoulder, and sprinted down to The Store to see the Brothers Gemkow perform some sort of rhythmic incantations. Crazy Legs and John were also there and had powered through the evening. They were attempting to play pop-a-shot. As expected, Crazy Legs pulled his usual ghosting, disappearing without informing anyone.

Sunday my dad came into town to have some lunch. We took advantage of the nice weather by hitting up the Southport City Saloon's beer garden. I think all but one of the six of us at the table ordered a corned beef-based dish. My corned beef hash was pretty good.

To counteract said hash, I set up my recently purchased Wii Fit. As in real life, my balance is deadly, my soccer ball heading abilities are easily matched, and I ski jump like a fucking Fin.

Drenched in sweat and in need of copious amounts of finger food and booze to cool me down, I headed to Alex and Alex's unnamed wife's apartment for their annual BBQ. I ate my weight in deviled eggs. As with last year's BBQ, the conversation turned to queefing or, more specifically, the sound of a queef. I still contend that it's a "thhhhhhh" or a quick "pht!" or a "hssssssssssssssss." Christoff still bitterly contends that it's a high-pitched "queeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeef!" No one else really seemed to add anything to the discourse.

Cyndee and I had a delightful conversation about pro-life protesters who have those huge, adorable signs with pictures of aborted fetuses. Frankly, we view those signs as offensive, not because they picture dead and bloody human fetuses, but rather because the signs are deceptive. You see, the pictures on these signs are clearly not to scale. So we beg you to carry around a large permanent marker at all times, just in case you come across one of these signs, so you can write "NOT TO SCALE" across the top of the picture. Either that, or glue a dime to the sign and write "ACTUAL SIZE" with an arrow pointing at the dime. This way, people walking down the street won't be confused as to why the pro-lifers want to prevent the abortion of dangerous seven-foot-tall mutant fetuses.

As the scotch, sangria, and summer shandy began to dwindle, we all knew it was time. It's been a while. Too long. I mean, it used to be every long weekend. But it hasn't been a reality in so long. Rumors had circulated, and we all headed to the Vu. Not for grinding or Los Bandaleros. No no. This. Was. Hillbilly. Sunday.

That's right, John the Bartender -- former darling of the Burwood Tap -- has resurfaced as a manager at the Vu. Because Sunday night isn't the most popular night for a 4 a.m. bar, Hillbilly Sunday has been resurrected. Bring on the madness.

Minnie insisted on getting pushed in the back of the head before we piled into as few cabs as possible.

When we arrived, we were not disappointed. Behind the bar with his familiar Texas polo shirt was John.
Everything started quite nicely. People were hugging and taking upside down pictures.

But within a very short period of time, shit . . . got . . . crazy. Women started dancing with women.
And then women started playing Pacman, even though there were no floating yellow dots.
Gregerson felt the need to emulate Horatio Caine, prompting Christoff and I to go up to Gregerson and utter cheesy phrases such as "looks like that guy really . . . lost his head," "looks like I won't be needing to go the bar later . . . because we got a cold one right here," or "someone call a short-order cook . . . because this guy's toast," followed by mimicking the opening howl of The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again."

John yelled for most of the evening, while Minnie continued to defy convention by walking around upside down. Some might describe her as a young Helen Gurley Brown.
Alex bit my wife's breast.

And then the tambourine came out. Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!Christoff was indifferent. I was unable to make anything but queefing noises (pht!), and Chandler's look suggests that he was pondering the old phrase, "Is that a bag of baby carrots in your pocket, or do you just have a severely deformed penis?"
As is Hillbilly Sunday tradition, Christoff and a Hillbilly Sunday virgin engaged in Tambouwrestling refereed only by green-shirted Aryan women. I had over $4000 riding on the virgin, so I was pretty in to it.

The virgin tried to gain an advantage by biting Christoff. As usual, Christoff resorted to his patented "creep you the fuck out" tactic.

John counted to fourteen, and it was declared a draw. Car bombs were consumed, we filmed a sexploitation flick, and then we all fainted, or so I'm told.

For much of the day, Jessie apparently felt like the people in the middle to the end of this video (thanks to Christoff for the link). I also spent much of the day with Brigitte Bardot. She wasn't up for going out, so we sat on the couch and watched VH1 Classic, which is by far the best station on TV. We saw Led Zeppelin in concert, Metal: A Headbanger's Journey (a great documentary by a metal-head anthropologist about the history and culture of heavy metal, which includes a very cool family tree of metal genres), classic Pop-Up video featuring various metal and hair band songs, and Ratt's Behind the Music. And then we made love.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

New Book - Sleeping With the Devil

I finished Steve Martin's autobiography, Born Standing Up. It was a quick read, and I would highly recommend it, especially for anyone who wants to know what life is like for a stand-up comedian. The book focuses on Martin's early years up to when he quit doing stand-up in the early '80s. As expected, he is a great writer and, obviously, he's funny. From reading the book, you can tell he is a pretty humble guy who was almost awestruck at his own success.

Going in the opposite direction, I started reading Sleeping with the Devil: How Washington Sold Our Soul for Saudi Crude by Robert Baer. Baer is a former CIA agent, and this book along with his memoir See No Evil were apparently the basis for the film Syriana (which I haven't seen). It's definitely not the type of book that I usually read, but it should be pretty interesting. As with Born Standing Up, thanks to Australian Andrew for recommending it and letting me borrow it.

The Big Puma

As an Astros fan, I have been keeping tabs on Lance Berkman's season. In case you haven't been paying attention, Berkman is having a monster season. Thus far, he has to be the leading candidate for NL MVP. He is in the NL's top 3 in nearly every statistical offensive category: home runs (1, tied), RBI (1), runs (1), slugging percentage (1), OPS (1), batting average (2), hits (2), doubles (2, tied), and OBP (3). And he's also tied for 7th in stolen bases, tied for 10th in walks, and tied for 13th in triples. I'm looking for Berkman to go ahead and grab a sextuple crown (HRs, RBI, BA, runs, hits, slugging pct.).

Friday, May 23, 2008

New Poll - Most Annoying Ad Campaign: Mac or Jared?

You, fair GMYH readers, have confirmed what I had already strongly suspected (and would believe with all my heart, if I had one): Jared is the jewelry store (read: galleria) with the most annoying commercials. 59% of you said so, with 23% going with Kay, 12% going with Other, 6% going with Rogers & Holland, and no one going with JB Robinson.

So that begs the question, which ad campaign should be crowned the most annoying ad campaign in the country, Jared or Mac? Obviously Jared has its many faults. However, in the past few years, Mac ads have become increasingly painful to watch. In the beginning it was kitschy -- a young, dodgeball-throwing hipster as the Mac quarreling with an old suit as the PC about which type of computer was cooler. But now, sweet Jesus, that motherfucking Mac is more smug than Gene Simmons. And for what? Because his hair kind of looks like Pete Wentz's and he wears jeans? That's not something to be outwardly self-satisfied about. Because of him, my desire to buy a Mac has actually decreased, which you would have thought was impossible, since I was previously at a 0.0000001% chance of buying a Mac. The ads have managed to make me empathize with the PC guy, even though I now find him difficult to look at. After 30 commercials, we get it: Mac has a chip on its shoulder. That point was beaten to death long ago.

Awesome Album Covers

Thanks to Gregerson, I am providing you with a link to some of the greatest album covers of all-time. A couple years ago, there was a similar post, and some of the albums are the same. Good God, this is some funny stuff. My favorites are #4, #12, #18, #26, and #27. Enjoy.

The Mansour Bahramis of Tomorrow?

As you may know, I'm a giant nerd, so it should come as no surprise that I'm following the IHSA tennis meet (my high school usually does decently). In scanning the results for the past day, I have come across some pretty awesome names -- names that no high schooler should have. Apparently some parents in 1990-1993 were pretty big assholes. I am too, so I figured I should post some of the better names in this year's tournament. Here you go:
-Igor Federov, who I assume doesn't smile and "must break you."
-Bobber Nelson
-Patrick "Dropping the" Hammers
-Gautham Oroskar, aka "Batman"
-Austin "Kanga" Roos
-Colby "The" Clapper
-Augie Bloom, who I assume is a 70-year-old Jewish man whose bursitis acts up now and then
-Max Vest
-Hemanth Sirandas, aka "Master of the Universe"
-Gentry Nordstrom
-Phil Ramsbottom - I bet he does.
-Brantner Jones - Soon-to-be-father in 1992: "Muffy, should we name our kid Brant or Vintner?" Soon-to-be-mother: "I know, Chad, why not combine the two?!" Soon-to-be-father: "Superb."
-Rustam "About to go in-" Saini
-Spenser Kockler - "Kockler? I don't even know 'er!"

And the best one of all: Skeeter Plowman

Hair Band Friday - 5/23/08

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Reverse Phantom?

I received an email from a Canadian ex-pat named Belly, who works for a company that has bathrooms on its premises. Belly forwarded me an email he received from a co-worker, who shall remain nameless to protect his identity and safety. It appears that there is some reverse fecal phantomism going on:

"So I go to the restroom this morning and as I open the door the light 'clicks' on… so I'm assuming there is no one in there. However the first stall was occupied.

So three questions – have you ever been in the restroom so long the light turns off? and two… is that embarrassing? And three – anyone know how long it takes for that to happen?"

I find this to be fairly awesome. Having worked only in places where the lights are controlled by old-fashioned switches, I'm guessing it's at least 15 minutes until the lights turn off -- any less would be cruel to the discriminating pooper or the man painfully reliving a night of fun, whether it's what we in the profession call "beer shits," or the unpredictable "Bamba's revenge," or just good old-fashioned "anal genital warts." Rather than embarrassment, I think being on the can that long is prideful, indicative of a master craftsman, steadfast masturbation, or perhaps someone whose "pot nap" (as I just deemed it) has gone a little longer than planned.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Midwestern Eavesdropping - 5/15/08

I had planned on posting this last Friday, but then AT&T forcefully removed that option. But, luckily for everyone, that just made a hearty stock even that much heartier:

Crazy man to packed rush hour train: "Any of you women ovulating?" [immediately followed by a demand for a fist bump from the twentysomething male unfortunate enough to be sitting next to him]
--Chicago, Brown Line train
Eavesdropper: RDC

Twentysomething female attorney to two twentysomething male attorneys over dinner: "So I was just sitting there sucking on it, and all of a sudden there was this huge explosion in my mouth. This actually happens quite a bit."
-- Dayton, OH, John Henry's Restaurant
Eavesdroppers: Holt and Polish Adam

Drunk twentysomething female at a late-night burrito place: "I have a cat, and I rock its pussy every night."
--Chicago, Los Tres Panchos, Diversey & Racine
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Two drunk thirtysomething males see a high school couple decked out in prom clothes walking hand-in-hand along Navy Pier. The girl is way too attractive for the boy.
Drunk Male #1 (to the couple): "You're out-kicking your coverage."
Drunk Male #2 (to the other drunk male): "She's gonna bleed tonight."
--Chicago, Navy Pier
Eavesdropper: Gregerson

Two girls in a bar bathroom of a Scottish pub:
Girl 1: "Why are there so many pictures of Ewan McGregor and Mel Gibson in here?"
Girl 2: "And who's this other guy? Wasn't he in the old Mission Impossible or something?" [looking at pictures of Sean Connery]
--Indianapolis, MacNiven's Pub
Eavesdropper: Nikki J

Creepy Male flight attendant: "A duck walks into a drugstore and goes to the counter and asks for some chapstick. The pharmacist says 'Will you be paying with cash or check?' The duck says, 'nah, just put it on my bill.'"
Small Asian boy: [silence]
CMFA: "How old are you, nine?"
SAB (now clutching his mother's arm): "You smell like basement."
--US Airways flight from Charlotte to Chicago
Eavesdropper: Floppy Burrito

Drunk Girl: "Oh my god! Her owners must be SO happy!"
Guy: "She had to be killed."
Drunk Girl: "Whatever! She's a horse and finished 2nd against a bunch of boy horses! What more do they want?!"
--Chicago, Stretch Run, LaSalle & Ohio
Eavesdropper: RobD

Irritating, gel-haired mid-20-something guy: "She's a cool girl for dating...or possibly other stuff."
--Indianapolis, Broadripple Tavern
Eavesdroppers: B-Mart and Ber

Twentysomething special ed teacher: "I'd swim in dunkel radler, and I don't even know how to swim."
--Chicago, Beer Fest, Navy Pier
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Two women talk loudly on train from O'Hare Airport at 12:30 a.m.:
Large woman in Starbucks apron: "He try and go after my sister but she ran inside the bedroom and locked the do'."
Slightly less large woman: "Mmm-hmmm."
LW: "He think he all scary so he kick through the do'."
SLLW: "Nu-uh!"
LW: "Oh you know only reason he go through that do' is it was one of them cheap ass ones with nothin' inside. Only scared person is hisself since we know he ain't bad. I'll get right up in his face and beat that n****r down and he know it."
--Chicago, Blue Line train
Eavesdropper: Floppy Burrito

Man in his mid to late 30s sitting at a table with his wife and another couple, speaking to the table: "I mean, I can understand buying a diamond for an engagement ring. But earrings?!? I cannot tell the difference between cubic zirconium and diamonds when they are in your ear. And the price differential? It is like one-thousand dollars! Do you know how many lap dances I can buy for one-thousand dollars?!?"
--Nashville, TN, El Rodeo Restaurante Mexicano
Eavesdroppers: RP-Tre and Kells P

As usual, we have a couple things that aren't technically eavesdropping, but need to be included nonetheless:
A sign seen during the Indy 500 Mini-Marathon: "You're all Kenyans in our hearts!"
--Indianapolis, Indy 500 Mini-Marathon
Eavesdroppers: B-Mart and Ber

T-shirt worn by middle-aged man whose job is to hand out free Red Eye newspapers outside the Fullerton L station every morning: "It sucks to be me."
--Chicago, Fullerton L station, Sheffield & Fullerton
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Thanks to everyone who responded to my call to action in the last MWE. It's touching, and I am forever indebted to you. Keep up the good work. And when you overhear something hilarious or inane or that can (and should) be taken out of context, email it to for inclusion in the next Midwestern Eavesdropping.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Pete Doherty and Amy Winehouse Star in Live Action Sequel to Corpse Bride

So I was reading The Superficial, as I'm prone to do, and I came across this picture of Pete Doherty staring into Amy Winehouse's soul while attempting to make out with her, although they may have actually just been surreptitiously sharing narcotics:Amazingly, the banshee-like figures you see in the above photograph are not in Madame Tussauds. Having looked at all the pictures, I'm not sure that Amy Winehouse had any idea that Pete Doherty was kissing her and/or fixing her a spoon with his breath (which is said to be twice the power of crack cocaine at a fraction of the price). They both seem extremely confused. Amy's arms indicate that she was recently on the losing end of a cockfight, again. Pete seems to have gained a single boot, which he plainly believes to be a relic from the Temple of Ptah at Karnak, used to summon Amun-Ra. Being allergic to sunlight and having a paralyzing fear of being attacked by rams, Pete fears the boot and is careful not to let it from his grasp, for if it were to fall into the wrong hands, his eternal ram-less midnight would be no more. At least that's what I see going on here.

Since When Did Brad Pitt Morph Into Robert Evans?

Is this the Brad Pitt of the future?

Hump Day Music, Conchords Style

Monday, May 12, 2008

Getting Medieval

I don't have the time I'd like to devote to this past Saturday night, but I will say this: if you have the chance to go to Medieval Times for a 30-year-old's college graduation party, do it. And sit front row. They have falcons, people. Falcons. And the Green Knight is a complete dick. Long live Lord del Font! And Gsell. Congrats.

New Book - Born Standing Up

This morning I finished reading The Rules of Attraction by Bret Easton Ellis. It was pretty good. I didn't like it as much as the other Ellis books I've read (American Psycho, Glamorama, Lunar Park), but I still liked it. Rampant drug use, sex, suicide. Pretty standard. In classic Ellis form, it was in first-person, although told by various people, and, in classic Ellis form, it was unclear who was telling the truth or the whole story, with the book ending in mid-sentence. I assume that indicated that the world ended, as predicted by the name of the party at the beginning of the book.

I've now moved on to Born Standing Up: A Comic's Life by Steve Martin. It's the story of an anonymous magician turned funnyman. Thanks to Australian Andrew for letting me borrow it.

New Poll - Most Annoying Jewelry Commercials

Well, the results have been long in about how GMYH readers feel about Tom Crean's chances next year at IU. 53% fell that Crean will lead the Hoosiers to the first or second round of the NCAA tournament, 35% think it will be the NIT, and 12% of you bastards think that Crean will have a losing season. Unsurprisingly, no one thinks that the Hoosiers will advance to the Sweet 16 or beyond.

Tying in with my rant about my hatred of a particular galleria of jewelry, this week's poll will prey on your emotions and aural tolerances. Jared is not the only jewelry company with horrible commercials, although it should be noted that they have TWO horrible ad campaigns: "He went to Jared" AND the piercing, high-pitched "It can only be JARED!" There is Kay Jewelers' "every kiss begins with Kay" campaign that has ruined so many lives. And of course there's "J-B-R! J-B Robin-son!" Those of you in the Midwest have been subjected to the off-key musings of a middle-aged women singing "Rogers and Hollands, jewelry created for now and for-eveeerrrrr." So which jewelry store's ads are the most annoying? Jared, Kay, JB Robinson, Rogers & Hollands, or something else that I've overlooked? If you do vote for "Other," please share your thoughts, if you can hold back the vomit.

Post Ratings

Apparently Blogger has, without my permission but with my post facto approval, added a little rating button to each post. Thus, you, the loyal GMYH readers (and even the disloyal ones) can express your approval or disapproval for each post on a 1-5 star scale. I like the idea, as my only goal in life is to appease you. Yes, you. The person reading this sentence. Seriously, YOU. I'm more excited than that time I watched that Family Guy episode with the random pop culture reference. You should be excited too. Yes, you.

Oddly, these ratings are not available when you click on a post to bring it up by itself or when you click on the "Older posts" link at the bottom of the home page, but rather only when the roll of posts is shown on the GMYH home page. And sometimes they show up, sometimes they don't. Thus, you must rate 'em while you have the chance. They may be gone forever. I don't know. I'm as confused and scared as you are, but rest assured, I will keep detailed statistics, broken down by date, time, category, and references to insolent monkeys.

Thanks, AT&T

My internet has been down at home since Friday. Why, you ask? Because AT&T went ahead and cancelled my phone service and, thus, my DSL service. Why, you ask? They don't know. That's the answer I got. It shouldn't have happened, and they have no idea how it happened. Thanks, shitheads. And of course it take 24-48 (read: at least 72 so far) hours for them to flip a switch to turn my service back on. I called tonight to see how everyone over in India was doing, and then I was transferred to the ordering department, and there appears to have been no progress whatsoever. In fact, things may have regressed because the kind woman in Ordering seemed to have no idea what was going on. But rest assured, my service should be back up within the next 24-48 hours. I shit you not. Geniuses. At least it's no longer SBC, because they would have yelled at me on the phone, somehow blaming it on me and then charging me a re-installation fee after they failed to turn my service back on. And the cycle would have recurred several times before they actually turned it back on, and even after realizing that it was their mistake, they would have yelled at me for bothering them while they were at work.

So, Kazda, you ask, "When did this blog turn into an 8th Grade tape making exchange?" Well, it was sometime on Friday. I can post Mixwit tapes from the Mixwit site (and thus from work). I cannot post on the blog from work, however. Many apologies. See the above paragraph.

By the way, thanks to Tradd and Ryan for their generosity and use of their wireless internet connection.

Thanks for Nothing, AT&T

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

Jared: The Galleria of Feces

If I had a time machine -- and, for the record, I don't -- I think the first thing I would do is go back in time and strangle to death whoever is responsible for the "he went to Jared" commercials for Jared, which, if you didn't know, is not a jewelry store, but rather a galleria of jewelry.

I don't know that I've ever hated an ad campaign as much as I hate the "he went to Jared" campaign. It's like fingers on a chalkboard every time I hear those fateful four words -- discomforting to watch. It was even physically and emotionally uncomfortable for me to type the words. The abominations that pass for jewelry store -- er, I mean, galleria -- commercials are the only commercials in recent memory that I actually change the channel to avoid.

My favorite (read: least favorite) commercial is the one where there are two future spinsters getting hammered in a restaurant. Rather than looking for mates for themselves, they find it necessary to text message their friend, who is, of course, enjoying dinner with her own male companion, or at least WAS enjoying dinner until her bat shit crazy friends started text messaging her. To get these bitches off her back, this money-grubbing whore starts texting about all the romantic (read: expensive) things her man has done for her: flowers, nice restaurant, and, to top it off, "he went to Jared." I assume the dude was taking a dump at this time because I know that when I have taken Jessie to a fancy dinner, she has never in my presence felt the need to incessantly text her friends about the flowers I bought for her, the expensive restaurant in which she is currently texting her friends instead of eating or talking to the man who brought her there, or the fucking jewelry galleria where I bought her a generic piece of jewelry. The worst part is that, after this strumpet reveals that her man bought her said jewelry from Jared, the other two women simultaneously climax while looking in each other's eyes and saying "he went to Jared."

It's far-fetched. It's categorically unlikable. More than anything, it's just creepy. What kind of a woman creams her shorts upon getting a text message saying that another woman's husband went to a particular jewelry galleria? The kind that will probably end up stabbing you with her stiletto heel because you failed to set the table with the correct symmetry, which she takes as a revelation that you have been unfaithful. She also boils rabbits and cuts herself to show you how much she loves you. Apparently the geniuses at Jared think that this type of woman who should be the face of their galleria.

Rest assured, I will never shop at Jared because of their horrible choice in an advertising campaign, which obviously promotes domestic violence, mental illness, and self-mutilation. Not that a galleria of jewelry needs one man's business in order to stay afloat, but good God, I'd rather support Procter & Gamble than support Jared, and everyone knows P&G is owned and operated by Beelzebub. They kill babies, people. Human babies. Without birth defects. Thousands a day. It's a fact. Yet it is impossible for me hate P&G as much as I hate Jared.

Monday, May 05, 2008

Sometimes I Feel Like I'm Beatin' a Dead Horse

The past few days have been marred by insolence and beer and dead horses. On Thursday I saw a dude wearing capri jeans at the Fullerton L station, and I nearly vomited. Men, whether you are gay or not, capri pants made of any material should not be worn under any circumstances. Please, I beg of you, heed my advice.

Jester and I spent our first weekend as landowners being benevolent to our serfs, who spend most of their days plowing our fields and harvesting nuts and livestock. Our fiefdom is small but strong, having gained the allegiance of several vassals in less than a week.

Friday we headed to Rocks for an evening feast, giving the serfs a night of rest, which undoubtedly led to frolic, dancing, and the consumption of mead, mulled wine, and fattened geese. To gain their respect, upon our return, Jessie made an example of a particularly drunken man who had gained skill as a reaper. He had the forthrightness to speak directly to Jessie without first asking permission. She lifted the man at his crotch with his own scythe, drowning out the man's screams with her own admonishments to the fearful onlookers: "Have we your attention?!" No person dared speak as blood began to trickle from the man's trousers. Lifting the man higher, she yelled again, "I said, have we your attention?!" A muted chorus of "yes m'lady"s came from the crowd. "Good," Jessie responded, "Because from now on, you shall not speak so much as a word in our direction unless spoken to. Is that understood?" Again, the crowd answered, "yes m'lady." Not finished, Jessie continued, "Good, because if any of you ungrateful buggers make the same mistake as this young man -- well, former man," she smirked as she looked at his blood-stained pants before continuing, "-- then I shall not be quite as merciful next time." With that, she set the man down. Woozy and bloody-crotched, the man bowed and said, "Thank you m'lady." Jessie turned to face the man with a steely look in her eyes. "Have we learned nothing?" she spoke, in a cold and deliberate tone before jabbing the scythe in the man's stomach and, in one swift upward movement, tearing a hole to the man's chin. As the man's entrails spilled from his body and the man's wife and five children swarmed his body in hysterics, Jessie dropped the scythe to the ground and looked at me provocatively. "M'lord?" she asked with a smile, holding out her hand. I grabbed her hand, knowing that, with her, bloodlust and titillation are often one in the same, cured only within our chambers. And without her corset.

Saturday we spoke not of what occurred the night before, choosing instead to frequent an off-track betting facility to watch Kentucky's derby. Bets were made, beer was drunk, fillies were euthanized. A fairly typical Saturday afternoon.

My favorite Eight Belles-related quote came this morning on SportsCenter. They were discussing the filly's demise with an equine doctor, who said -- and I'm paraphrasing -- "It's no dangerous than any other sport. Athletes get injured in horseracing just as athletes get injured in other sports. The only difference is that here we euthanize them." Thanks for clarifying.

After the OTB, we went to Beer Fest, which is short for Beer Festival. In attendance were a couple Gregs, a Floppy Burrito, a current and former Pope, a Tron, a Magdog, a Derrick, a Meagan, an Alex, an Alex's nameless wife, and potentially several thousand others. Four hours of all-you-can-drink beer from around the country and globe, 3-6 ounces at a time, depending on the pourer. It was a catastrophe. We walked (?) from Navy Pier to Timothy O'Toole's, which is apparently a bar, not an Irishman's home. Touch-screen trivia was played. Records were shattered by KAAGGCAJJ, or any combination thereof.

From there, we jogged (?) to Paddy Long's. A spry man named Gregory -- who constantly carries around in an ill-fitting cage a small, wry-witted monkey he wrested from a soothsayer in a Tashkent bazaar -- was unsuccessful in his bid to catch the last train out of the city, and so he rejoined us after a painfully awkward hour-long absence, during which Jessie, Jeremy, Ari, Chandler, Alex, Alex's nameless wife, myself, and potentially others just stared at each other blankly while occasionally looking up to see who was winning the Western Bulldogs-Sydney Swans match. The kitchen was closed, and so were my thoughts. Gregory and his monkey arrived, much to everyone's enjoyment because it meant that we would soon have the opportunity to watch Gregory spray his monkey in the face with a garden hose for no reason whatsoever. This would last somewhere between zero seconds and three hours.

Gregory and his monkey took up lodging at our residence for the evening. We offered to give Gregory's monkey the portions of the reaper's stomach and liver that had not been picked away by crows and wild dogs. Gregory refused. "Insolence begets starvation," Gregory stated, stoically, before closing the door to his chambers to retire. Through the door, we heard the adorable pleas of an insubordinate little primate (the monkey, not Gregory):

"Oh please, Gregory. I have not eaten in days. My little stomach cannot take much more . . . [the creaking of a metal cage door opening] . . . Oh, thank you, Gregory. I knew you would come around. . . . Wait. What are you doing? . . . Oh no, not the hose, Gregory. . . . [the whistle of a garden hose cutting through the air and then coming into contact with the face and arms of a monkey, followed by terrifying screams] . . . Please stop, Gregory. . . . I will improve, I promise. . . . [more screaming] . . . I hate you, Gregory! You are nothing but a bastard man! . . . [more screaming] . . . Oh, who am I kidding, Gregory? I could never hate you. . . . [more screaming] . . . Even your vicious and repeated beatings with a garden hose feel like hugs and kisses. . . . [more screaming] . . . I am smitten, I'll admit it. . . . [more screaming] . . . Perhaps it's your silken hair. . . . [more screaming] . . . Or the way you throw a frisbee. . . . [more screaming] . . . So effortless . . . [more screaming] . . . Or your constant refusal to compromise your beliefs for the well-being of a little monkey who cares ever-so-deeply for you. . . . [the sound made by the hose increases in frequency, and the screaming reaches piercing levels] . . . Oh Gregory, this is so 'us,' isn't it? [thud of
an unconscious monkey hitting the floor]."
When we awoke in the morning, there was Gregory and his monkey were no longer in the guest chambers. A note indicated that Gregory had in fact stayed with us and since left. However, there was no trace of his monkey. It was as if there had never been a monkey in our residence at all.

Confused, Jessie and I bought a box spring and mulled over the previous night's indiscretions while watching a documentary on Evel Knievel. We all have our own personal Snake River Canyons, we concluded. I received a text message from a DBH that indicated the 1984 Jeffrey Shamos vehicle Kid Colter was available On Demand. As a DirecTV subscriber without access to On Demand, I was horrified.

This morning some motherfucker chose the stall next to me, even though I was the only person in any of the four stalls at that point, meaning that there was clearly an opportunity to take a stall that would have provided the preferred one-stall buffer. Have people no manners? I beckoned Jessie, and she broke both of the man's ankles before injecting him with a serum that caused cardiac arrest.

This evening, a rotund d-bag with a fauhawk driving a cream Escalade while talking on his cell phone pulled out of a mid-block alley in front of my law-abiding drive down Lincoln Avenue. When I laid on my horn and rhetorically asked "what the fuck?", he honked back and angrily responded, "what the fuck?" and continued to sling unpleasantries in my direction. I think he was actually ready to get out of the car and fight me. I was (and still am) extremely confused. Luckily Jessie was with me, so the man's skull soon resembled a split grapefruit.

Next week my armies will take the Earl of Schaumberg. The week after, we shall sack York. But first, we shall read and laugh at this. Glad tidings to The Brothers Weeser* (minus Dan and Tim, oddly) for the link.