Well everyone, here is this week's Midwestern Eavesdropping. Happy Holidays.
Twentysomething female approaches twentysomething male on L platform:
Female (excitedly): "Heeeeyyy!"
Male (in a voice that suggested he may have once hooked up with her): "Oh hey, how's it going?"
(Female leans in and awkwardly hugs Male)
Female: "How are you? Oh my God, your hair is so long."
Male: "Yeah, it's been a while since--"
Female: "Oh, and you got a new coat!"
Male (in a tone suggesting he wanted the conversation to be over): "Yes. That is true."
Female (way too excited, not getting the point): "Wow. So where did you get it?"
(the conversation continued for another couple minutes)
Female: "I never expected to see you here."
Male: "Yeah, it's a surprise."
Female: "I know. I mean, I definitely expected to see you other times, but never here."
--Chicago, Washington & Wells L platform
Eavesdropper: GMYH
Son: "How about that jaguar eating that guy’s face off? How do you fake that?!"
Father: "What about that water birth? How the hell did they do that?!"
Son: "That enemy with the skulls on his arm was perfect."
Father: "Jesus. He may be a voracious alcoholic and a rabid anti-Semite, but that Mel Gibson can make a fuckin’ movie."
--Birmingham, MI, showing of Apocalypto
Eavesdropper: RobD
Annoying thirtysomething female: "I don't even have any kids, but have a thousands onesies at home."
--Chicago, Joe's Bar, Weed St.
Eavesdropper: GMYH
Twenty-something male attorney to twenty-something female attorney on the way home from a Monday Night Football thrashing of the Bengals by the Colts: "So, how is it?"
Female attorney: "I can't suck it. It's too thick."
Seconds later, the female attorney continues: "I will say that the thickness feels really good on my sore throat."
--Somewhere between Indianapolis and Dayton
Eavesdropper: Holt
Teenage pseudo-hipster female: "Do you think I can pull it off?"
Guy: "Oh yeah, definitely." (referring to the fact that she was wearing tall, striped socks with flip flops. In December.)
Hipster chick: "Well, I was going to get some shoes, but I was gonna wait until they go on sell."
Guy: "Oh yeah, they can be expensive if they're not on sale."
Hipster chick: "Yeah, I think I'm gonna get 'em once they go on sell."
--Plymouth, IN, Arby's
Eavesdroppers: GMYH, Ari
John Laskowski after a dunk: "That Armon Basset dunk shot was nothing but net!"
--Bloomington, IN, IU vs. Western Michigan
Eavesdropper: Holt (and anyone else who was watching the game)
Loudmouth and female friend talk on a packed rush hour L train:
Female: "So what are you doing this weekend?" [meaning Christmas weekend]
Loudmouth: "Well, like 7 of us are going to my grandma's and we're gonna have an intervention."
--Chicago, Purple Line train
Eavesdropper: GMYH
What looks like an older brother observes what appears to be a younger sister testing “The SIMS” computer game at Best Buy:
Brother: “This is stupid. They don’t even speak English.”
Sister: “They speak SIMish.”
Brother: “Did you just say that?”
Sister: “I was just going to say that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.”
--Rochester, MI, Best Buy
Eavesdropper: RobD
Older Filipino woman opening up a present from her kids: "OOOH, channel."
Daughter who could not stop laughing: "Mom, it’s CHANEL!"
--Chicagoland area
Eavesdropper: 1/2 Pint
Young mother: "You can't have those."
Possibly gay 2-year-old boy: "Why?"
Young mother: "Sweetie, I'm not buying those for you."
(Possibly gay 2-year-old begrudginly takes off black 4-inch spike heels he was walking around in)
--Chicago, DSW, Halsted & Clark
Eavesdropper: GMYH
Drunk Girl, aka Kristin: "Oh god I am so happy to be here…"
Girl: [introducing drunk girl] "Hey, [guy], you remember Kristin, right?"
Guy: [plastic smile] "Yeah, hey, how are ya?"
Kristin: [sarcastic] "I’m excellent, it’s so great to see you, yadda yadda, yeah, yeah… [grabbing own breasts] I know my boobs are still really small, let’s not make a big thing out of it, mmkay?"
Guy: [incredulous] "Yeah, well my dick’s still really large. [Pause] How’s that for not making a big thing out of it?"
Kristin: [indignant] "I guess not much changes, huh?"
Guy: [sneering, gesturing toward preserved anti-cleavage] "No, apparently not!"
--Bloomfield Hills, MI, The Moose Preserve, Woodward Avenue & Square Lake Road
Eavesdropper: RobD
Thanks to everyone who submitted. I expect good things out of New Years, so keep those ears open and memories in tune, and email your eavesdroppings to gmyhblog@yahoo.com.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Two Great Videos
In honor of the two biggest events this week (aside from the passing of the Godfather of Soul), here are two solid video links. For those of you who haven't heard, the 38th President of the United States, Sir Gerald Ford -- husband to a booze hound and loser to a peanut farmer -- died. As soon as I heard the news, I thought of Dana Carvey doing Tom Brokaw on SNL 10 years ago, preparing for a vacation by taping various contingencies of Gerald Ford's death. Anyway, The Defamer has the video of the sketch. Watch it and laugh. Thanks to Greg Weeser* for the link.
Second, for those of you who haven't heard, the greatest college basketball coach of all-time, General Robert Montgomery Knight will most likely become college basketball's all-time wins leader after his Texas Tech Red Raiders defeat Jerry Tarkanian's semi-pro UNLV Runnin' Rebels Thursday night. I found a link to ESPN's Top 10 Bob Knight Sound Bites. It's pretty good. I especially like No. 2, as well as No. 1, which I had the pleasure of seeing on live television in 1994.
Second, for those of you who haven't heard, the greatest college basketball coach of all-time, General Robert Montgomery Knight will most likely become college basketball's all-time wins leader after his Texas Tech Red Raiders defeat Jerry Tarkanian's semi-pro UNLV Runnin' Rebels Thursday night. I found a link to ESPN's Top 10 Bob Knight Sound Bites. It's pretty good. I especially like No. 2, as well as No. 1, which I had the pleasure of seeing on live television in 1994.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
The Aristocrats
Happy Boxing Day, you Canadian bastards. So, how was everyone's weekend? Mine was pretty good. Friday, Jester, Harley, Ari, and I loaded up The Blaab (actually, Harley didn't help much), and we headed to Roanoke (IN, not VA). The trip was fairly pedestrian, although we did stop in Plymouth (IN, not MA or MI) at an Arby's, which was next to a Wendy's, whose sign said "With Wendy's Gift Certificates, the Possibilities are Endless." Having thought of several possibilities that I am certain cannot be attained through the use of Wendy's gift certificates -- the legalization of polygamy; the elimination of The South; making Suzy Kolber's voice unannoying; global nuclear holocaust; the invention of a new superbreed of horse that can prepare individual income taxes efficiently, accurately, and affordably; reversion to pangea; making the word "queef" a part of everyday vernacular in the English language; or building a really sweet fort, to name a few -- I have very intention of filing a class action false advertising suit tomorrow.
Friday night, Jester, Ari, Lizzie, Liz, and I went up to the Fort for some dinner and a couple drinks. After one round of NTN trivia at Buckets, I had already shattered the all-time Buckets one-round record by over 2,000 points (bear in mind that the maximum points in a round is 15,000). So next time you're playing NTN at Bucket's, just know that the "DOG" you're chasing is GMYH.
On Saturday, we opened presents at the Pope/Bogan homestead. Among other things, I got a pretty sweet tailgating grill, which will ensure that I enjoy tailgating even more than I already do, which I didn't think was possible.
On Sunday, we packed up The Blaab and headed back to Chicago. The trip back was without incident. I didn't even have to hold onto the steering wheel.
Monday, we had my mom, dad, aunt, and brother over to our place for some more present unwrapping. Good times were had. Presents were unwrapped. Souls were not crushed. Jessie made a fantastic spread of food, including ham, garlic rosemary red potatoes, green bean casserole, three-layered jello, individual pumpkin pies, ginger snaps, rolls, shrimp, crackers and brie, rotola, and a nice veggie plate with dill dip. Not to be outdone, I sliced a pineapple. Gluttony ensued.
Tonight, Jessie and I watched The Aristocrats (not to be confused with The Aristocats), which was a present from Kyla (gracias). I found it to be quite entertaining. It's about an old joke from the Vaudeville era that comics tell each other, and the movie featured a ton of comics telling the joke in their respective fashions (Bob Saget probably had the best one). Here is the original joke (or close enough):
As Jessie so aptly pointed out, it's irony of title. Comedians now use the joke as an excuse for oneupsmanship, making the middle is as outrageous and vulgar as possible, setting everything up for the punchline at the end. At the end of the movie, it says that it wants the viewers to spread the word to keep the joke alive. However, the joke is only supposed to be said in private. Wanting to respect the unwritten rules of comics, I won't write out what my version of "The Aristocrats" would entail. Plus, my version would be so repulsive and over-the-top that it would just be too vile to put into concrete written form, but suffice it to say, it would involve some or all of the following: defecation; urination; ejaculation; lactation (female, male, and animal); bleeding, and lots of it; regurgitations, mostly of sperm, feces, urine, and blood, or any combination thereof; sexual intercourse; oral sex; anal sex; digital penetration; fisting (most of it bicep deep); rampant queefing; sodomy, and violent sodomy at that; felching; incest; necrophilia; the combination of incest and necrophilia; bestiality; necrobestiality; the forced ingestion of used feminine napkins and full diapers; family elephant walks; the rape and murder (not necessarily in that order) of children, dogs, chickens, goats, senior citizens, fetuses, and Darfurian refugees; the insertion of Louisiana Hot Sauce into eyes, ears, noses, and pee holes; leprocy and the penetration of lepers with their own limbs; the insertion of Calista Flockheart feet first into a man's anus; skullfucking your grandma; rusty trombones between grandfather and grandson; bathing in yak sperm; the actual eating and chugging of pussy and cock, respectively; the throwing of placenta and the still-born babies to which it is attached at the stupid woman who couldn't give birth to a live baby; midgets masturbating into the forced-open mouths of deaf children, so that they can see the fact that they are swallowing midget sperm, but not be able to hear the midgets laughing; Reggie Roby and Ray Guy punting ostrich eggs into various orifices of man, woman, and child; boxing the ears of blind children; the rampant use of tusks from freshly poached baby elephants; and the ritualistic molestation of special needs children and young adults. Oh, and maybe some dirty talk. I'd probably call it "The Aristocrats."
And yes, I am fully aware that I will be rotting in hell, where I will most likely be sodomized by Gene Keady, who for some reason has razor blades and a lemon juice squirter instead of a penis.
Friday night, Jester, Ari, Lizzie, Liz, and I went up to the Fort for some dinner and a couple drinks. After one round of NTN trivia at Buckets, I had already shattered the all-time Buckets one-round record by over 2,000 points (bear in mind that the maximum points in a round is 15,000). So next time you're playing NTN at Bucket's, just know that the "DOG" you're chasing is GMYH.
On Saturday, we opened presents at the Pope/Bogan homestead. Among other things, I got a pretty sweet tailgating grill, which will ensure that I enjoy tailgating even more than I already do, which I didn't think was possible.
On Sunday, we packed up The Blaab and headed back to Chicago. The trip back was without incident. I didn't even have to hold onto the steering wheel.
Monday, we had my mom, dad, aunt, and brother over to our place for some more present unwrapping. Good times were had. Presents were unwrapped. Souls were not crushed. Jessie made a fantastic spread of food, including ham, garlic rosemary red potatoes, green bean casserole, three-layered jello, individual pumpkin pies, ginger snaps, rolls, shrimp, crackers and brie, rotola, and a nice veggie plate with dill dip. Not to be outdone, I sliced a pineapple. Gluttony ensued.
Tonight, Jessie and I watched The Aristocrats (not to be confused with The Aristocats), which was a present from Kyla (gracias). I found it to be quite entertaining. It's about an old joke from the Vaudeville era that comics tell each other, and the movie featured a ton of comics telling the joke in their respective fashions (Bob Saget probably had the best one). Here is the original joke (or close enough):
A guy walks into a talent agent's office, and says to the agent, "Boy do I have
an act for you." The agent says, "Well, what kind of an act is it?" The man
says, "It's a family act. My wife and I walk out on stage and take a big
shit right in the middle of the stage. Then our son and daughter come out
on stage, lie down and wallow in the shit." The agent asks, "What do
you call it?" The man says, "The Aristocrats."
As Jessie so aptly pointed out, it's irony of title. Comedians now use the joke as an excuse for oneupsmanship, making the middle is as outrageous and vulgar as possible, setting everything up for the punchline at the end. At the end of the movie, it says that it wants the viewers to spread the word to keep the joke alive. However, the joke is only supposed to be said in private. Wanting to respect the unwritten rules of comics, I won't write out what my version of "The Aristocrats" would entail. Plus, my version would be so repulsive and over-the-top that it would just be too vile to put into concrete written form, but suffice it to say, it would involve some or all of the following: defecation; urination; ejaculation; lactation (female, male, and animal); bleeding, and lots of it; regurgitations, mostly of sperm, feces, urine, and blood, or any combination thereof; sexual intercourse; oral sex; anal sex; digital penetration; fisting (most of it bicep deep); rampant queefing; sodomy, and violent sodomy at that; felching; incest; necrophilia; the combination of incest and necrophilia; bestiality; necrobestiality; the forced ingestion of used feminine napkins and full diapers; family elephant walks; the rape and murder (not necessarily in that order) of children, dogs, chickens, goats, senior citizens, fetuses, and Darfurian refugees; the insertion of Louisiana Hot Sauce into eyes, ears, noses, and pee holes; leprocy and the penetration of lepers with their own limbs; the insertion of Calista Flockheart feet first into a man's anus; skullfucking your grandma; rusty trombones between grandfather and grandson; bathing in yak sperm; the actual eating and chugging of pussy and cock, respectively; the throwing of placenta and the still-born babies to which it is attached at the stupid woman who couldn't give birth to a live baby; midgets masturbating into the forced-open mouths of deaf children, so that they can see the fact that they are swallowing midget sperm, but not be able to hear the midgets laughing; Reggie Roby and Ray Guy punting ostrich eggs into various orifices of man, woman, and child; boxing the ears of blind children; the rampant use of tusks from freshly poached baby elephants; and the ritualistic molestation of special needs children and young adults. Oh, and maybe some dirty talk. I'd probably call it "The Aristocrats."
And yes, I am fully aware that I will be rotting in hell, where I will most likely be sodomized by Gene Keady, who for some reason has razor blades and a lemon juice squirter instead of a penis.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Best Haircut Ever?
Happy solstice, you pagan bastards. Midwestern Eavesdropping is postponed this week, as there are only 4 submissions.
So I've gone about a week and half too long without getting a haircut. Thus, I decided to get one today after work. I had been led to believe --probably by the government -- that my usual barber shop was open until 7pm every day. Luckily I called at 5:54 to ask, at which time I learned that it closed at 6. Ergo, I made a couple calls to other barber shops. A place on Southport, just south of Fullerton called Mario's was open until 9.
I walk up to Mario's around 7, and the place is packed with dudes, drinking, carousing, and generally carrying on. Apparently it was Customer Appreciation Night. So after a 15-minute wait, while Bob the Barber was finishing someone else, I sat down. Bob immediately asked me what I wanted to drink. Some geriatric named Billy -- who was wearing white pants, a white short-sleeve button-down shirt, a black bowtie, and a hat that indicated he may have been a milkman in the '50s -- was serving up drinks from a table FULL of booze. I relented at first, but on account of my disease, I ordered a scotch on the rocks (because I noticed they had several bottles of pretty good stuff). Billy fixed me up an 8oz Solo cup full of scotch and ice.
Minutes later I found myself in a precarious position: sitting in a barber's chair with an eighth of a haircut, staring at myself in the mirror with a scotch in my left hand and holding clippers in my right while my barber was taking a shot of tequila. A certain level of uneasiness flowed through my body, as you may have expected. Luckily the booze took the edge off.
That shot must have energized Bob because he went at my head Edward Scissorhands style, although his hands were not scissors and he didn't have scurvy. Somehow Bob managed to get through the ordeal without any catastrophes. I learned that drinking scotch (or anything, for that matter) can be a pain in the ass while getting your hair cut, especially when the barber uses a blowdryer to blow all the hair off your shoulders. Right into your cup of scotch. I also learned that Mario's has drinks for its customers all year round. As Bob said, "One guy asked me if we had a liquor license. I told him you don't need a license if you're just giving it away for free." Kinda like the difference between Dutch hookers and Dutch women in general.
Merry Chrismukkah. I love you all.
So I've gone about a week and half too long without getting a haircut. Thus, I decided to get one today after work. I had been led to believe --probably by the government -- that my usual barber shop was open until 7pm every day. Luckily I called at 5:54 to ask, at which time I learned that it closed at 6. Ergo, I made a couple calls to other barber shops. A place on Southport, just south of Fullerton called Mario's was open until 9.
I walk up to Mario's around 7, and the place is packed with dudes, drinking, carousing, and generally carrying on. Apparently it was Customer Appreciation Night. So after a 15-minute wait, while Bob the Barber was finishing someone else, I sat down. Bob immediately asked me what I wanted to drink. Some geriatric named Billy -- who was wearing white pants, a white short-sleeve button-down shirt, a black bowtie, and a hat that indicated he may have been a milkman in the '50s -- was serving up drinks from a table FULL of booze. I relented at first, but on account of my disease, I ordered a scotch on the rocks (because I noticed they had several bottles of pretty good stuff). Billy fixed me up an 8oz Solo cup full of scotch and ice.
Minutes later I found myself in a precarious position: sitting in a barber's chair with an eighth of a haircut, staring at myself in the mirror with a scotch in my left hand and holding clippers in my right while my barber was taking a shot of tequila. A certain level of uneasiness flowed through my body, as you may have expected. Luckily the booze took the edge off.
That shot must have energized Bob because he went at my head Edward Scissorhands style, although his hands were not scissors and he didn't have scurvy. Somehow Bob managed to get through the ordeal without any catastrophes. I learned that drinking scotch (or anything, for that matter) can be a pain in the ass while getting your hair cut, especially when the barber uses a blowdryer to blow all the hair off your shoulders. Right into your cup of scotch. I also learned that Mario's has drinks for its customers all year round. As Bob said, "One guy asked me if we had a liquor license. I told him you don't need a license if you're just giving it away for free." Kinda like the difference between Dutch hookers and Dutch women in general.
Merry Chrismukkah. I love you all.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Trivia in a Box
So last night was the weekly trivia extravaganza at Rocks. We named our team Limahl, after the bullshit answer to the question that cost us first place last week. Limahl was down by three points heading into the final round, where we took a solid nosedive, finishing third overall, losing by 5 or 6. Helen Hunt. I always knew she would ruin me.
As a result of Jessie's proclamation that I can never again put video bowling before her, I was unable to play Silver Strike last night. Interestingly, had she let me play, I would have won enough money to buy her a Christmas present. Looks like it's Wonder Woman Underoos and a subscription to Cat Fancy again. Or maybe a dick in a box (thanks to J-Diza for the uncensored version -- if you're playing it at work, you might want to keep the sound down):
As a result of Jessie's proclamation that I can never again put video bowling before her, I was unable to play Silver Strike last night. Interestingly, had she let me play, I would have won enough money to buy her a Christmas present. Looks like it's Wonder Woman Underoos and a subscription to Cat Fancy again. Or maybe a dick in a box (thanks to J-Diza for the uncensored version -- if you're playing it at work, you might want to keep the sound down):
Monday, December 18, 2006
"I Got It From Eating Pussy"
Probably the greatest answer to the question, "Izzy, where did you get that voice?" Gimme blood pollution!
Sunday, December 17, 2006
I Got (Bur)Wood
I don't know about you, but my weekend was pretty sweet. I didn't bag any babes or anything, but I definitely got some smiles!
Friday at work, I had a sweet associate training session at lunch, the highlight of which was a discussion about Edgar Bellefontaine. I learned some things about him. It turns out that FBI Agent Chris Saviano -- the man Edgar wants to stop raping his wife -- was having an affair with Edgar's wife. Edgar caught said wife and Saviano doing it, and she feigned rape, as it were. She then divorced Edgar. Several months ago, Edgar went to a hearing before Judge Carol Bellows (one of the "outlaws" he once listed on his signs). Edgar told people that the hearing was related to the rape, which I guess it kind of was, since it was actually his ex-wife's hearing to renew her restraining order against Edgar. So the rapings have apparently stopped, although not in Edgar's mind. The consensus at the training session was that Edgar is crazy. Crazy like a fox. A fox whose wife was raped by FBI Agent Chris Saviano.
Friday night I had a party at the Burwood, in the back room. It was one of their notorious $30 all-you-can-drink-a-thons from 9-12 (or an extra hour for an extra $10). The nice thing is that the Burwood doesn't exclude much. Unlike other bars -- where you might be limited to domestic draft beers, white wine, diet tonic water, and alcohols that start with I, X, or Q -- the Burwood lets you have everything except bottled beer and Red Bull. Thus, I was drinking Black Bush and Bushmill's the whole night, with various shots mixed in there. To make things more interesting, the other party in the back room was a bad Christmas sweater party, so there was a lot to laugh at.
Here are some of the details/highlights:
Saturday night, Jester and I went to the traditional German haus of Uter and Greta Widenhofer for a traditional German Christmas party, featuring sushi, chicken wings, Bartles & James fuzzy navel wine coolers, vodka tonics, and Miller High Life. I was kind of leary of attending, on account of my non-Aryan heritage. I was not exterminated, at least not literally. At one point, a song from Uter's mix CD forced me to ask, "Is this Dido?" It was. Jessie and I then left in hysterics, torching the place on the way out.
Harley has not yet regenerated either of her ovaries, which I think is a good thing.
*Allegedly, this is the fourth time I have "made" Jessie walk home alone after 2am. I am not in a position to confirm or deny this rumor, but I have accumulated a sizeable video bowling booty.
Friday at work, I had a sweet associate training session at lunch, the highlight of which was a discussion about Edgar Bellefontaine. I learned some things about him. It turns out that FBI Agent Chris Saviano -- the man Edgar wants to stop raping his wife -- was having an affair with Edgar's wife. Edgar caught said wife and Saviano doing it, and she feigned rape, as it were. She then divorced Edgar. Several months ago, Edgar went to a hearing before Judge Carol Bellows (one of the "outlaws" he once listed on his signs). Edgar told people that the hearing was related to the rape, which I guess it kind of was, since it was actually his ex-wife's hearing to renew her restraining order against Edgar. So the rapings have apparently stopped, although not in Edgar's mind. The consensus at the training session was that Edgar is crazy. Crazy like a fox. A fox whose wife was raped by FBI Agent Chris Saviano.
Friday night I had a party at the Burwood, in the back room. It was one of their notorious $30 all-you-can-drink-a-thons from 9-12 (or an extra hour for an extra $10). The nice thing is that the Burwood doesn't exclude much. Unlike other bars -- where you might be limited to domestic draft beers, white wine, diet tonic water, and alcohols that start with I, X, or Q -- the Burwood lets you have everything except bottled beer and Red Bull. Thus, I was drinking Black Bush and Bushmill's the whole night, with various shots mixed in there. To make things more interesting, the other party in the back room was a bad Christmas sweater party, so there was a lot to laugh at.
Here are some of the details/highlights:
- I drank more than $40 worth of Black Bush, Bushmill's, and shots.
- I didn't puke.
- Kyla showed up at some point, and all indications were that she drank her weight in grain alcohol before arriving because she greeted me with a cock punching. Thankfully I have the reflexes of a paranoid cat, and I partially deflected the brunt of the force, which is not to say she didn't do some damage.
- Kyla slapped me in the eye for no reason.
- I justifiably smacked Kyla in the right tit. I'm almost positive she didn't notice.
- Ari tried to break a beer bottle over Jessie's lip.
- After the Burwood, many of us went to The Vu, and again, Gregerson and I found ourselves playing Silver Strike Bowling. This time we brought in two rookies whose money we could take. I won $15 in the first game, and I was nice enough to waive the $15 the rookies owed me in the second game.
- Jessie left during the second game, presumably because watching me play video bowling for nearly $15.01 a game makes her more nervous than a patent lawyer who has ever refused to file a patent (too soon?).*
- At 2:52am, Jester sent me the following text: "This is the last time you put video bowling in front of your wife." What she doesn't know is that her Christmas present is a Silver Strike Bowling machine.
- After we finished the second game, those of use left headed to Los Tres Panchos, where I used a fraction of my winnings to purchase some steak nachos. Man was I laughing my ass off just knowing that those porr bastards sitting across the table from me paid for my food. To the victors go the spoils, indeed.
Saturday night, Jester and I went to the traditional German haus of Uter and Greta Widenhofer for a traditional German Christmas party, featuring sushi, chicken wings, Bartles & James fuzzy navel wine coolers, vodka tonics, and Miller High Life. I was kind of leary of attending, on account of my non-Aryan heritage. I was not exterminated, at least not literally. At one point, a song from Uter's mix CD forced me to ask, "Is this Dido?" It was. Jessie and I then left in hysterics, torching the place on the way out.
Harley has not yet regenerated either of her ovaries, which I think is a good thing.
*Allegedly, this is the fourth time I have "made" Jessie walk home alone after 2am. I am not in a position to confirm or deny this rumor, but I have accumulated a sizeable video bowling booty.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Midwestern Eavesdropping - 12/16/06
It's been a while since the last Midwestern Eavesdropping, and frankly, our collective eavesdropping skill is a bit rusty. I think we all need to really focus on putting our noses (and ears) in other people's business this week. Anyway, here you go:
29-year-old male, discussing a particularly large shit he had taken eariler in the day: "It was tickling my ass."
--Cincinnati, some bar
Eavesdropper: Tron
After discussing how "tight" it would be if they had a Taco Bell next to the Pizza Hut at a Target:
Filthy Stoner: "What can you get for a $15 at iTunes?"
Filthier Mustachioed Stoner: "I don't know. Maybe a CD, then kill yourself for being dumb?"
Filthy Stoner: "Or maybe like 2 songs?"
(if you don't know that songs are only $0.99 on iTunes, you shouldn't be reading this).
As they were walking away (a good 5-10 minutes after the initial Pizza Hut conversation): "Dude, why do they call it Pizza Hut? Is it because it was started by some guy selling pizza out of a hut?"
--Chicago, Target, Logan & Elston
Eavesdroppers: RDC, KM
Apparent male at stoplight discussing his Harley with stranger who is also riding a Harley: "The best price the dealer will give a transvestite for this bike is $14,346."
--Chicago, in a dream
Eavesdropper: GMYH (this was good enough that I tried to write it down in my dream, which was tough because I was riding a motorcycle)
29-year-old male: "So, how about them Pistons?" (after admitting that he enjoyed Brokeback Mountain)
--Cincinnati, some bar
Eavesdropper: Tron
Two professional women standing around talking, and one woman says to the other: "I'm kind of worried about my dog. He'd keep eating until he killed himself."
--Chicago, Lake & LaSalle
Eavesdropper: Trashton*
*Trashton submitted this eavesdropping with a caveat that the reason he found it so funny because he "just picture[d] a dog eating, and eating until the point that its life actually ends and it drops."
Unkempt Businessman: "Are you saying you don't like my 'stache?"
Lady Friend: "No. It's nauseating."
Unkempt Businessman: "But... you realize that now there can be moustache rides. Fifteen cents."
Lady Friend: "At least I'm getting something out of the deal."
Unkempt Businessman: "Oh, you're getting something, that's for sure."
--Chicago, FlatTop Grill, Wells & North
Eavesdropper: RobD
28-year-old married Canadian-American male during a night away from the wife: "I just did a shot with some girl . . . and didn't use a ticket!"
--Cincinnati, some bar
Eavesdropper: Tron
In case you forgot, whenever you overhear something hilarious -- whether you're in the Midwest, a Midwesterner on vacation, or a former Midwesterner who now lives elsewhere -- email what you hear (along with the location and an Eavesdropper nickname) to gmyhblog@yahoo.com. People say stupid things. Be there to ensure it makes its way to the internet.
29-year-old male, discussing a particularly large shit he had taken eariler in the day: "It was tickling my ass."
--Cincinnati, some bar
Eavesdropper: Tron
After discussing how "tight" it would be if they had a Taco Bell next to the Pizza Hut at a Target:
Filthy Stoner: "What can you get for a $15 at iTunes?"
Filthier Mustachioed Stoner: "I don't know. Maybe a CD, then kill yourself for being dumb?"
Filthy Stoner: "Or maybe like 2 songs?"
(if you don't know that songs are only $0.99 on iTunes, you shouldn't be reading this).
As they were walking away (a good 5-10 minutes after the initial Pizza Hut conversation): "Dude, why do they call it Pizza Hut? Is it because it was started by some guy selling pizza out of a hut?"
--Chicago, Target, Logan & Elston
Eavesdroppers: RDC, KM
Apparent male at stoplight discussing his Harley with stranger who is also riding a Harley: "The best price the dealer will give a transvestite for this bike is $14,346."
--Chicago, in a dream
Eavesdropper: GMYH (this was good enough that I tried to write it down in my dream, which was tough because I was riding a motorcycle)
29-year-old male: "So, how about them Pistons?" (after admitting that he enjoyed Brokeback Mountain)
--Cincinnati, some bar
Eavesdropper: Tron
Two professional women standing around talking, and one woman says to the other: "I'm kind of worried about my dog. He'd keep eating until he killed himself."
--Chicago, Lake & LaSalle
Eavesdropper: Trashton*
*Trashton submitted this eavesdropping with a caveat that the reason he found it so funny because he "just picture[d] a dog eating, and eating until the point that its life actually ends and it drops."
Unkempt Businessman: "Are you saying you don't like my 'stache?"
Lady Friend: "No. It's nauseating."
Unkempt Businessman: "But... you realize that now there can be moustache rides. Fifteen cents."
Lady Friend: "At least I'm getting something out of the deal."
Unkempt Businessman: "Oh, you're getting something, that's for sure."
--Chicago, FlatTop Grill, Wells & North
Eavesdropper: RobD
28-year-old married Canadian-American male during a night away from the wife: "I just did a shot with some girl . . . and didn't use a ticket!"
--Cincinnati, some bar
Eavesdropper: Tron
In case you forgot, whenever you overhear something hilarious -- whether you're in the Midwest, a Midwesterner on vacation, or a former Midwesterner who now lives elsewhere -- email what you hear (along with the location and an Eavesdropper nickname) to gmyhblog@yahoo.com. People say stupid things. Be there to ensure it makes its way to the internet.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Aaarrrrrghhhhhh
Ways you can tell your new law firm is the place for you: a partner who is retiring in February wants his last day at the firm to be Talk and Dress Like a Pirate Day. Better yet, he already has a solid contingent of people who are onboard. Or should I say, walking the plank. Huh? Huh? Get it? Walking the plank?
MWE will be coming tomorrow or this weekend sometime, as will the The OC recap. Hair Band Friday may be as well, although I'm not sure how much I will be able to get into it, since I won't be able to blog from work, where all the action is.
MWE will be coming tomorrow or this weekend sometime, as will the The OC recap. Hair Band Friday may be as well, although I'm not sure how much I will be able to get into it, since I won't be able to blog from work, where all the action is.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
I Am Dung
Sorry I've been absent as of late. A combination of work, play, acid flashbacks, and nearly smoking myself out of the house has really hurt my blogging productivity.
Monday night, after the previously mentioned smokeout, I thought I had completely extinguished the bastard Duralog in our fireplace. Thus, I closed the flue. Never close the flue. At 2:02am, Jessie taps me and says, "It really smells like smoke." I looked up and it appeared as though there had been thirty people smoking cigars for the entire day while burning rubber. The whole apartment was filled with a dense Dura-fog. I went downstairs, and it turns out that you can't kill a Duralog very easily. Smoldering quietly in the fireplace, it might as well have been laughing out loud at me. We opened all the windows in the apartment, and expended about a half a bottle of Febreze, yet as I am sitting here writing this, the not-so-faint smell of a campfire permeates my entire being. Never close the flue.
The new job is going well. Unlike the social abolitionists I previously worked with, I actually work with nice people who actually took me out for drinks after work yesterday and whose breath actually doesn't smell like rotting pig flesh. After a couple brews with the new co-workers and a solid discussions about talkies, I headed to Rocks for some trivia. I think it's safe to say that You're With Me, Leather got jobbed by Wizard's Sleeve -- or, more appropriately, by the guy running the game. We lost by 3 or 4 points because of a never-before-seen 5-point bonus question in the "name that tune" round, which is usually 1 point for song title and 1 point for the artist. The song was the theme to the Neverending Story (or Die Unendliche Geschichte for you krauts), which was worth 1 point. The 5-point bonus came for the artist, which was apparently not Paul Carrack or Falkor. No, it was the former lead singer of Kajagoogoo, who apparently was not too shy shy to go by the name Limahl. Wizard's Sleeve was the only team that got it right, which leads me to believe they were in kahoots with Kevin, the guy who runs it. I was so distressed by losing that I refused to attempt to take more money from Gregerson at Silver Strike Bowling.
Today, I was hornswaggled into playing some flag football. Christoff (who was also hornswaggled) said that we would be playing at 6:30. He was correct. What he didn't know (because the guy whose team we were subbing on didn't mention) was that if we won, we played again at 8:30. Of course we won the first game, despite the fact that the other team resorted to tackling rather than grabbing flags. Thankfully, what goes around comes around, and there is now one more 120-pound woman at Rush in critical condition. In between games, we headed to Tequila Roadhouse for an in-between-game beer. This proved to be a wise decision, as the only two people on the team who did not have a beer had to temporarily leave the game with wicked calf cramps, on two plays in a row no less. I am now extremely tired and must sleep. I love you all.
Monday night, after the previously mentioned smokeout, I thought I had completely extinguished the bastard Duralog in our fireplace. Thus, I closed the flue. Never close the flue. At 2:02am, Jessie taps me and says, "It really smells like smoke." I looked up and it appeared as though there had been thirty people smoking cigars for the entire day while burning rubber. The whole apartment was filled with a dense Dura-fog. I went downstairs, and it turns out that you can't kill a Duralog very easily. Smoldering quietly in the fireplace, it might as well have been laughing out loud at me. We opened all the windows in the apartment, and expended about a half a bottle of Febreze, yet as I am sitting here writing this, the not-so-faint smell of a campfire permeates my entire being. Never close the flue.
The new job is going well. Unlike the social abolitionists I previously worked with, I actually work with nice people who actually took me out for drinks after work yesterday and whose breath actually doesn't smell like rotting pig flesh. After a couple brews with the new co-workers and a solid discussions about talkies, I headed to Rocks for some trivia. I think it's safe to say that You're With Me, Leather got jobbed by Wizard's Sleeve -- or, more appropriately, by the guy running the game. We lost by 3 or 4 points because of a never-before-seen 5-point bonus question in the "name that tune" round, which is usually 1 point for song title and 1 point for the artist. The song was the theme to the Neverending Story (or Die Unendliche Geschichte for you krauts), which was worth 1 point. The 5-point bonus came for the artist, which was apparently not Paul Carrack or Falkor. No, it was the former lead singer of Kajagoogoo, who apparently was not too shy shy to go by the name Limahl. Wizard's Sleeve was the only team that got it right, which leads me to believe they were in kahoots with Kevin, the guy who runs it. I was so distressed by losing that I refused to attempt to take more money from Gregerson at Silver Strike Bowling.
Today, I was hornswaggled into playing some flag football. Christoff (who was also hornswaggled) said that we would be playing at 6:30. He was correct. What he didn't know (because the guy whose team we were subbing on didn't mention) was that if we won, we played again at 8:30. Of course we won the first game, despite the fact that the other team resorted to tackling rather than grabbing flags. Thankfully, what goes around comes around, and there is now one more 120-pound woman at Rush in critical condition. In between games, we headed to Tequila Roadhouse for an in-between-game beer. This proved to be a wise decision, as the only two people on the team who did not have a beer had to temporarily leave the game with wicked calf cramps, on two plays in a row no less. I am now extremely tired and must sleep. I love you all.
Monday, December 11, 2006
All Things Must Pass
The Fortnight of Andrew pushed on to a blinding crescendo, the likes of which haven't been seen since there walked a lady we all know who shines white light and wants to show how everything still turns to gold.
Friday night brought both joy and Pimp My Ride watching. It's amazing what a guy can do with a 1966 El Camino and an unlimited budget. Lizzie and friend Cerita (whose name I assume I just butchered) arrived, and we went to Sedgwick's to meet up with Jessie, Ari, and Morgan at their firm's post-holiday-party party. Ale was consumed. Good times were had. Collies were not molested.
Saturday provided mixed emotions. I woke up around 5:30 to take a brisk swim in Lake Michigan, followed by some cage fighting and an oatmeal bath with a ferret, which for some reason I was calling a marmot. All of this seemed strange, considering I had a flag football game at 11. It was a hard-fought defensive battle on the frozen tundra, resulting in a 7-0 loss, thereby ending our season. After that, we headed to Rocks to watch the second half of the abortion that passed for the IU/Kentucky game. It turns out that shooting 4 for 25 from three-point range negatively influences a team's chances of victory. Lizzie and Cerita were so disgusted with the way IU played that they went to Milwaukee (Algonquin for "the good land").
Bruised and broken after the game, I left Rocks with my proverbial tail between my legs, literally. I spent most of Saturday afternoon conversing with Frasier about why he has been drinking so much water. Unsatisfied with the results, I watched most of VH1's 100 Greatest Kid Actors. I had always wondered what happened to Danny Pintauro and Lisa Whelchel. Gay and turbo Christian, respectively (and predictably).
Saturday evening brought a devlish little soiree. Get this. Tradd just finished his last law school final, and his special ladyfriend Kara took him to dinner. Meanwhile, a group of Tradd's friends and family members gathered without his knowledge at Kara's apartment. Despite what you may be thinking, we did not rob her blind. Instead, we waited until they returned from dinner and put forth upon Tradd the greeting "Surprise!" when he walked in the door. Fear and indifference stared back at us.
After the party, several of us headed to Deja Vu (the bar in Chicago, not the various strip clubs in Indiana and Michigan). I regained my Silver Strike Bowling touch while at The Vu, netting $45 from Gregerson and his neighbor Chandler. The steak nachos I obtained in exchange for cash at Los Tres Panchos proved to be a fitting reward. I stabbed a bird with a stale nacho chip while walking home.
Yesterday I did a lot of sitting. At the urging of Wilfred Brimley, I checked my blood sugar level and I checked it often. I don't think I have "dye-a-be-tiss." Last night was my last class for my current Second City class, so the three of us that actually showed up to class went out to Burton Place afterward, where we watched the Saints depants the Cowboys and drank more than we probably should have on a Sunday night, especially for those of us who started new jobs today. I make good decisions.
The Fortnight of Andrew officially died this morning when my alarm went off at 6:30. Begrudgingly, I showered, dressed myself, and ate breakfast. What's nice about starting this new job is that I had training today, and I have another full day of training tomorrow. However, while reading the firm's attorney handbook, I came across a horribly depressing prohibition: blogging. While my productivity at work will increase tenfold, I fear that GMYH will suffer. Thus, I will be putting in my two-week notice tomorrow.
Tonight Jessie and I attempted to make a fire in our fireplace and managed to make our entire apartment smell like a bonfire. Febreze can only do so much. Thanks a lot P&G.
Currently I'm watching the Bears/Rams game while challenging myself to a Devin Hester praising contest. Holy shit, that guy's good.
Friday night brought both joy and Pimp My Ride watching. It's amazing what a guy can do with a 1966 El Camino and an unlimited budget. Lizzie and friend Cerita (whose name I assume I just butchered) arrived, and we went to Sedgwick's to meet up with Jessie, Ari, and Morgan at their firm's post-holiday-party party. Ale was consumed. Good times were had. Collies were not molested.
Saturday provided mixed emotions. I woke up around 5:30 to take a brisk swim in Lake Michigan, followed by some cage fighting and an oatmeal bath with a ferret, which for some reason I was calling a marmot. All of this seemed strange, considering I had a flag football game at 11. It was a hard-fought defensive battle on the frozen tundra, resulting in a 7-0 loss, thereby ending our season. After that, we headed to Rocks to watch the second half of the abortion that passed for the IU/Kentucky game. It turns out that shooting 4 for 25 from three-point range negatively influences a team's chances of victory. Lizzie and Cerita were so disgusted with the way IU played that they went to Milwaukee (Algonquin for "the good land").
Bruised and broken after the game, I left Rocks with my proverbial tail between my legs, literally. I spent most of Saturday afternoon conversing with Frasier about why he has been drinking so much water. Unsatisfied with the results, I watched most of VH1's 100 Greatest Kid Actors. I had always wondered what happened to Danny Pintauro and Lisa Whelchel. Gay and turbo Christian, respectively (and predictably).
Saturday evening brought a devlish little soiree. Get this. Tradd just finished his last law school final, and his special ladyfriend Kara took him to dinner. Meanwhile, a group of Tradd's friends and family members gathered without his knowledge at Kara's apartment. Despite what you may be thinking, we did not rob her blind. Instead, we waited until they returned from dinner and put forth upon Tradd the greeting "Surprise!" when he walked in the door. Fear and indifference stared back at us.
After the party, several of us headed to Deja Vu (the bar in Chicago, not the various strip clubs in Indiana and Michigan). I regained my Silver Strike Bowling touch while at The Vu, netting $45 from Gregerson and his neighbor Chandler. The steak nachos I obtained in exchange for cash at Los Tres Panchos proved to be a fitting reward. I stabbed a bird with a stale nacho chip while walking home.
Yesterday I did a lot of sitting. At the urging of Wilfred Brimley, I checked my blood sugar level and I checked it often. I don't think I have "dye-a-be-tiss." Last night was my last class for my current Second City class, so the three of us that actually showed up to class went out to Burton Place afterward, where we watched the Saints depants the Cowboys and drank more than we probably should have on a Sunday night, especially for those of us who started new jobs today. I make good decisions.
The Fortnight of Andrew officially died this morning when my alarm went off at 6:30. Begrudgingly, I showered, dressed myself, and ate breakfast. What's nice about starting this new job is that I had training today, and I have another full day of training tomorrow. However, while reading the firm's attorney handbook, I came across a horribly depressing prohibition: blogging. While my productivity at work will increase tenfold, I fear that GMYH will suffer. Thus, I will be putting in my two-week notice tomorrow.
Tonight Jessie and I attempted to make a fire in our fireplace and managed to make our entire apartment smell like a bonfire. Febreze can only do so much. Thanks a lot P&G.
Currently I'm watching the Bears/Rams game while challenging myself to a Devin Hester praising contest. Holy shit, that guy's good.
Friday, December 08, 2006
OC Recap and Stitches
I have entered the winter of the Fortnight of Andrew. Last night Jessie and I went to the grocery store. On the way there we were almost t-boned by a Chicago Police officer who was simply not paying attention. Then his buddy riding shotgun pointed out the fairly noticeable black Saab station wagon he was about to plow into. The look on his face when he realized his mistake was priceless. It was the kind of combination of fear, embarrassment, and shock that one doesn't come to expect from a uniformed police officer.
After we got back from the grocery store, we ran suicides and made balloon animals. Then we watch The OC. Last night's episode was pretty good. Since I'm not in the mood for a lengthy recap, here's what you need to know:
Currently I'm watching The Filth and The Fury while challenging myself to a Nancy Spungen killing contest. Too soon?
After we got back from the grocery store, we ran suicides and made balloon animals. Then we watch The OC. Last night's episode was pretty good. Since I'm not in the mood for a lengthy recap, here's what you need to know:
- Summer got booted from Brown until next fall. As a result, she is back in Newport, and now Seth is going to postpone his enrollment in RISD until the fall as well. Once again, Josh Schwartz and McG have managed to conveniently get everyone back to Newport, while pissing off an innocent Providence in the process.
- That dirty, scapegoating hippie bastard Che shows up in Newport to make amends with Summer, since he got her booted from an Ivy League school and because he's a dirty asshole. He brings his dijereedoo, and actually says to Summer, "But you love the dij'." Luckily for all of us, the dij does not make an appearance. Miraculously, amends are made in spite of the dij's absence, and we find out that Che's dad owns a pharmaceutical company and he has more cash than one of those rappers. Additionally, we learn Che is short for Winchester. Seriously. At least give him a nickname that's a little more believable or mainstream, like Winch, Heste (pronounced "heest"), or Ste. I hope the private family jet that he took home crashed into a cactus field inhabited by rabid jackyls.
- While attempting to say "lame," Kaitlin says "lahm." Somehow, others her age understand what she meant. This prompts her to throw a raging kegger with such features as kegs and "seven minutes in heaven." The party totally beats out some other uppity hooker's party.
- Unbeknownst to them, Julie and Kirsten's dating service has now turned into a gigolo service. The Bullitt may or may not have something to do with this. It goes without saying that I love where this is going.
- Ryan keeps having vivid, '80s-hair-band-video-style fantasies involving Taylor. Nothing yet involving candlewax, tube socks, and the new Fiona Apple CD. It goes without saying that I would love for these fantasies continue. They haven't done anything with leather, pleather, vinyl, or latex yet. For the love of Providence, make it happen Josh Schwartz and McG.
Coneheaded dog ain't nothin' but a bitchMeanwhile, Holt sent me this chart, which I thought was pretty funny and extremely accurate:
Tryin' reach her stomach, tryin' to scratch an itch
All because some vet down in Cincy
Took only one ovary and now Harley's wincy
Stitches out my bitch
Stitches out my bitch
Just today took some stitches out my bitch
One right ovary,
And a little uterus
Stupidass vet left 'em in my bitch
Currently I'm watching The Filth and The Fury while challenging myself to a Nancy Spungen killing contest. Too soon?
Thursday, December 07, 2006
The Fortnight Gets Kicked in the Ass
The Fortnight of Andrew has taken a dizzying downward spiral within the past few days. Tuesday morning the wireless internet that I have been mooching for the past 6 months went out on me, failing to return until 12:30pm today. For those wondering, there are not enough submissions to merit a Midwestern Eavesdropping, so that will have to wait until next Thursday.
To make matters worse, several of us headed to Rocks Tuesday night to play some trivia. With awesome questions in the first two rounds such as "What gun manufacturer makes the MP5 machine gun?", Two Os in Goose put itself in an insurmountable hole. Having pretty much bombed in the first couple rounds, our blinding comeback in the next 4 rounds was all for not. Thus, we did not get 25% off of our bill.
After the loss I was on edge and visibly distracted, yet I agreed to play Silver Strike Bowling with Gregerson because I pretty owned him for the past 2 weeks. I never should have rolled the first ball. Over the next hour and a half I proceeded to give back to Greg over 1/3 of the money I've won from him while bowling the previous 2 weeks. It was sickening how off I was. I don't know if it was the steroids or what, but I spent a good deal of the time inexplicably rolling the ball directly into the gutter.
On the walk home, I stripped down to my boxers, killed a squirrel with my bare hands, and threw it onto the roof of a nearby three-story single-family home.
Yesterday I pretty much lied on the couch in the fetal position (naked), bawling my eyes out, smoking opium, urinating into a half-full gallon of milk, and watching Cheaters on mute while listening to old Tiny Tim records. When Jessie got home, I put some clothes on, and we went to Piece (along with a bitter 26-year-old male, who has still not yet experienced a threesome with two willing DePaul coeds) for some pizza and dunkel weizen. This lifted my spirits immeasurably, prompting me to invite Jessie to join me for a TV-watching session back at our apartment, followed by non-REM and REM sleep. She said yes!
Currently I'm watching the "Tailwind Turner"/"Combustable Huxtable" episode of The Cosby Show while challenging myself to a 4x400 relay race.
To make matters worse, several of us headed to Rocks Tuesday night to play some trivia. With awesome questions in the first two rounds such as "What gun manufacturer makes the MP5 machine gun?", Two Os in Goose put itself in an insurmountable hole. Having pretty much bombed in the first couple rounds, our blinding comeback in the next 4 rounds was all for not. Thus, we did not get 25% off of our bill.
After the loss I was on edge and visibly distracted, yet I agreed to play Silver Strike Bowling with Gregerson because I pretty owned him for the past 2 weeks. I never should have rolled the first ball. Over the next hour and a half I proceeded to give back to Greg over 1/3 of the money I've won from him while bowling the previous 2 weeks. It was sickening how off I was. I don't know if it was the steroids or what, but I spent a good deal of the time inexplicably rolling the ball directly into the gutter.
On the walk home, I stripped down to my boxers, killed a squirrel with my bare hands, and threw it onto the roof of a nearby three-story single-family home.
Yesterday I pretty much lied on the couch in the fetal position (naked), bawling my eyes out, smoking opium, urinating into a half-full gallon of milk, and watching Cheaters on mute while listening to old Tiny Tim records. When Jessie got home, I put some clothes on, and we went to Piece (along with a bitter 26-year-old male, who has still not yet experienced a threesome with two willing DePaul coeds) for some pizza and dunkel weizen. This lifted my spirits immeasurably, prompting me to invite Jessie to join me for a TV-watching session back at our apartment, followed by non-REM and REM sleep. She said yes!
Currently I'm watching the "Tailwind Turner"/"Combustable Huxtable" episode of The Cosby Show while challenging myself to a 4x400 relay race.
Monday, December 04, 2006
If You Like Piña Coladas
The Fortnight of Andrew continues its murderous assualt on my liver and good graces. This weekend provided ample opportunity for debauchery and tomfoolery.
Friday night brought an intense dinner: takeout from Penny's. The flavors were intense, and I spent most of dinner yelling incoherently at the fireplace. I carried my crippled, coneheaded dog up and down the stairs a couple times, and Jessie and I watched the entire Simon & Simon series on DVD.
Saturday morning I woke up drenched in sweat and tears from the night terrors. You would think after two weeks of being away from that godforsaken hellhole, they would have stopped, but the wounds cut too deep to heal that quickly. That motherfucker's dragon breath still haunts me.
After the shaking and dry heaving stopped, Jessie and I headed to Einstein for some breakfast involving bagels and related foodstuffs. After that, Jester and i hit the Home Depot for some smoke detectors and a tannenbuam. We picked up a 6-8 foot Fraser fir, which we quickly named Frasier, not because it sounds like what kind of tree it is, but rather because we had taken so much acid that it was talking like Dr. Frasier Crane. Pretty smart tree, but kind of full of himself.
After setting Frasier up and leaving him to his own smarminess, we headed over to Chi-Town Tap to meet Morgan "Crazy Legs" Hirst for some afternoon drinks. The photograph you see to the left is an accurate portrayal of some of the last pints of Bell's Oberon in the city of Chicago. And they were pretty good. Then we hit BW-3 for some wild, wings, and weck. And they were pretty good.
Then Jessie and I went to Target, and I was extremely close to challenging myself to a noose-making contest, grabbing a Penthouse, and going out Michael Hutchence style (too soon?).
Saturday night, Jester and I went to a Christmas party at the former apartment of Tron's special ladyfriend, Maggie, aka Magdog, aka Magermeister. Tron mixed up what I would call a hell of a caucasian, and then another, and then another. Before I knew it I was laughing out loud and eating some of the thousands of cookies available for consumption. By the way, Tron's friend Shane came up with a pretty sweet way to eat a cookie. Dunking cookies in milk is now a thing of the past. White Russians are the new milk.
It was around this time that I noticed the surprising and disturbing prevalence of Sparks. For those of you who don't know, Sparks is an alcoholic energy drink that tastes like Sweet Tarts. It's normally reserved for pseudo-intellectuals with beards wearing KU School of Fine Arts hats and brownish gray polo shirts with pink horizontal stripes. Saturday night was no exception. Several beers did little to quell my desire to ask someone at the party, "Hey, anyone know where a guy can get some Sparks around here?" Then I proceeded to continuously screw up the music by hitting the wrong buttons on an i-Pod. But at least I wasn't hopped up on Sparks.
After Jessie and I got home, the combination of vodka, Kahlua, half & half, beer, cookies, summer sausage, cheese, crackers, and lil smokies was itching to escape. I wish I would have weighed myself before and after I sat down on the toilet because I'm pretty sure I shat a pumpkin. Kinda painful, but kinda prideful. Guys, you know what I'm talkin' about.
Yesterday I spent much of the day cursing the Bears futile offense, praising the Bears phenomenal defense and special teams, and running into Tron and Magdog and Ari and Klint at DSW and Marshall's.
After my Second City class, a few of us went out for "a couple drinks" at Burton Place. One of the guys in my class -- we'll call him Australian Andrew because his name is Andrew and he's from Australia -- knows the bartender at Burton Place, which meant that there was a surprising and disturbing prevalence of complimentary tequila shots and discounted drinks. Both of us left the bar rather hastily in order to avoid puking all over the bar.
If any of you are into poker and laughing, check out Bluff the Donkey. It's kind of like The Onion, but focusing on poker personalities. Australian Andrew runs the site, and writes everything on it.
I've spent most of the day repeatedly transcribing the lyrics to "Escape" by Rupert Holmes and shooting at squirrels, elk, and cars from my window with a spear gun. I came to the conclusion that I'm going to start wearing more ascots.
Currently I'm watching Crocodile Dundee while challenging myself to a knife-showing contest and challenging that wiley croc that lives downstairs to a deathrolling contest. Later I might head downtown, probably around rush hour, and try to walk on people's heads at a crowded L stop.
Friday night brought an intense dinner: takeout from Penny's. The flavors were intense, and I spent most of dinner yelling incoherently at the fireplace. I carried my crippled, coneheaded dog up and down the stairs a couple times, and Jessie and I watched the entire Simon & Simon series on DVD.
Saturday morning I woke up drenched in sweat and tears from the night terrors. You would think after two weeks of being away from that godforsaken hellhole, they would have stopped, but the wounds cut too deep to heal that quickly. That motherfucker's dragon breath still haunts me.
After the shaking and dry heaving stopped, Jessie and I headed to Einstein for some breakfast involving bagels and related foodstuffs. After that, Jester and i hit the Home Depot for some smoke detectors and a tannenbuam. We picked up a 6-8 foot Fraser fir, which we quickly named Frasier, not because it sounds like what kind of tree it is, but rather because we had taken so much acid that it was talking like Dr. Frasier Crane. Pretty smart tree, but kind of full of himself.
After setting Frasier up and leaving him to his own smarminess, we headed over to Chi-Town Tap to meet Morgan "Crazy Legs" Hirst for some afternoon drinks. The photograph you see to the left is an accurate portrayal of some of the last pints of Bell's Oberon in the city of Chicago. And they were pretty good. Then we hit BW-3 for some wild, wings, and weck. And they were pretty good.Then Jessie and I went to Target, and I was extremely close to challenging myself to a noose-making contest, grabbing a Penthouse, and going out Michael Hutchence style (too soon?).
Saturday night, Jester and I went to a Christmas party at the former apartment of Tron's special ladyfriend, Maggie, aka Magdog, aka Magermeister. Tron mixed up what I would call a hell of a caucasian, and then another, and then another. Before I knew it I was laughing out loud and eating some of the thousands of cookies available for consumption. By the way, Tron's friend Shane came up with a pretty sweet way to eat a cookie. Dunking cookies in milk is now a thing of the past. White Russians are the new milk.
It was around this time that I noticed the surprising and disturbing prevalence of Sparks. For those of you who don't know, Sparks is an alcoholic energy drink that tastes like Sweet Tarts. It's normally reserved for pseudo-intellectuals with beards wearing KU School of Fine Arts hats and brownish gray polo shirts with pink horizontal stripes. Saturday night was no exception. Several beers did little to quell my desire to ask someone at the party, "Hey, anyone know where a guy can get some Sparks around here?" Then I proceeded to continuously screw up the music by hitting the wrong buttons on an i-Pod. But at least I wasn't hopped up on Sparks.
After Jessie and I got home, the combination of vodka, Kahlua, half & half, beer, cookies, summer sausage, cheese, crackers, and lil smokies was itching to escape. I wish I would have weighed myself before and after I sat down on the toilet because I'm pretty sure I shat a pumpkin. Kinda painful, but kinda prideful. Guys, you know what I'm talkin' about.
Yesterday I spent much of the day cursing the Bears futile offense, praising the Bears phenomenal defense and special teams, and running into Tron and Magdog and Ari and Klint at DSW and Marshall's.
After my Second City class, a few of us went out for "a couple drinks" at Burton Place. One of the guys in my class -- we'll call him Australian Andrew because his name is Andrew and he's from Australia -- knows the bartender at Burton Place, which meant that there was a surprising and disturbing prevalence of complimentary tequila shots and discounted drinks. Both of us left the bar rather hastily in order to avoid puking all over the bar.
If any of you are into poker and laughing, check out Bluff the Donkey. It's kind of like The Onion, but focusing on poker personalities. Australian Andrew runs the site, and writes everything on it.
I've spent most of the day repeatedly transcribing the lyrics to "Escape" by Rupert Holmes and shooting at squirrels, elk, and cars from my window with a spear gun. I came to the conclusion that I'm going to start wearing more ascots.
Currently I'm watching Crocodile Dundee while challenging myself to a knife-showing contest and challenging that wiley croc that lives downstairs to a deathrolling contest. Later I might head downtown, probably around rush hour, and try to walk on people's heads at a crowded L stop.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Airborne
Since I know Tron, Jamie, and Ashcraft will appreciate this, I wanted to make everyone aware of the fact that I am currently watching Airborne, the 1993 masterpiece starring a longhaired redheaded Seth Green as a completely unlikeable bag-o-douche named Wiley, as well as a young and angry Jack Black as the hilarious, overzealous villain Augie. Wiley's cousin Mitchell Goosen (who predictably referes to himself as Goose) moves from California to, gulp, Cincinnati to live with Wiley and Wiley's parents, played by Edie McClurg and the dude who played Mr. Dewey in Saved By The Bell. Goose says awesome things like, "I don't want you to get caught up in this, so I'm gonna jam," "I like the smell of the ocean, purple sunsets, and surfin' in the rain," and "bra" (referring to both males and females). He also puts his surfboard on his bed and has vivid surfing fantasies.
With good reason, Goose gets hazed pretty hardcore by Augie and the rest of the high school hockey team, which is funny because in the entire 2 1/2 years I lived in southwestern Ohio I don't think I ever heard an Ohio native utter the word "hockey," except when used in the sentence, "Wait, so the Dayton Bombers are a hockey team?" However, the producers of Airborne would lead you to believe that the prevalence of hockey in southwestern Ohio is on par with the prevalence of people who seriously believe that the Bengals have a chance at going to the Super Bowl every year. Luckily for Goose, he sends himself a package that contains his rollerblades. The hills of Cincinnati prove to be a worthy adversary for Goose's totally rad style of rollerblading. He pretty much thrashes various stairs and rails to the max.
The movie culminates in the most badass rollerblading competition every fictionalized on the silver screen. Also, the movie singlehandedly provided the impetus for the formation of the Columbus Blue Jackets.
Currently I'm watching Airborne while challenging myself to a rollerblading contest down Devil's Backbone.
With good reason, Goose gets hazed pretty hardcore by Augie and the rest of the high school hockey team, which is funny because in the entire 2 1/2 years I lived in southwestern Ohio I don't think I ever heard an Ohio native utter the word "hockey," except when used in the sentence, "Wait, so the Dayton Bombers are a hockey team?" However, the producers of Airborne would lead you to believe that the prevalence of hockey in southwestern Ohio is on par with the prevalence of people who seriously believe that the Bengals have a chance at going to the Super Bowl every year. Luckily for Goose, he sends himself a package that contains his rollerblades. The hills of Cincinnati prove to be a worthy adversary for Goose's totally rad style of rollerblading. He pretty much thrashes various stairs and rails to the max.
The movie culminates in the most badass rollerblading competition every fictionalized on the silver screen. Also, the movie singlehandedly provided the impetus for the formation of the Columbus Blue Jackets.
Currently I'm watching Airborne while challenging myself to a rollerblading contest down Devil's Backbone.
Are You OCerious?
As I have no office, there is no Hair Band Friday this week or next week. Word on the street, though, is that the ladies at my new place of employment are clamoring for the chance to attend the HBF Kickoff Party in two weeks, which will feature Jacstosy (in case you forgot, that would be my killer punch made from Jack, Ecto Cooler, and ecstacy, which has been known to release panties faster than Tom Jones).
The Fortnight of Andrew trudges on. Last night, Christoff and I hit BW-3 for some wild, wings, and weck. Harry from the Matt, Jirko, and Harry show on ESPN 1000 was there doing a promotional thing for ESPN 1000. There were various trivia contests for prizes. Christoff's name got called, and he answered two Seinfeld questions correctly, netting him a Monday Night Football coozy -- the very same coozy that I received free at the end of the promotion because they had extra.
The fact that I received something for nothing, while Christoff was forced to answer two very easy questions in order to obtain the same thing did not sit well with me. I tossed and turned all night. At one point I had a dream that I knocked over some kid's plate of birthday cake at an outdoor birthday party and his dad got all pissed off at me. Hey, if your kid's gonna get in my way while I'm trying to get back to my hotel, then he shouldn't have such a big piece of cake on his plate. And some light weightlifting wouldn't hurt either. I woke up at about 5:15 this morning, and didn't fall back asleep until about 6:38. I was overcome with guilt.
I again woke up around 9 to take my coneheaded autistic dog for a walk that I hoped would result in urination and defecation. One out of two ain't bad. When I returned to the apartment, after carrying said dog up the stairs, I was sullen and weary, so I went back to bed until about 11. I love the Fortnight of Andrew.
After a healthy breakfast and a quick glass-blowing session, I decided to watch last night's The OC, which was anxiously awaiting me on the DVR.
Ryan was up all night watching Bollywood movies due to insomnia. Somehow, that is not helping Ryan fall asleep, probably because of some cheery -- yet completely unnecessary -- dance numbers. Who could sleep through that? Taylor is creaming herself over Ryan. Since she is a sex panthress, I think Ryan would be wise to let her manipulate his genitals. For Pete's sake, she "never sleeps more than four hours a night. It's unproductive." That means she likes to do it.
Meanwhile, Julie Cooper is banging some 25-year-old kraut that she tries to pass off as her personal trainer. If by "personal training," you mean "doing it." Kaitlin is trying to do her tennis instructor, whose name is predictably Spencer. Julie sees Spencer and decides that German she's humping is the wurst. Kaitlin sees Julie making out with Spencer and is somehow pissed off, even though Kaitlin is 15 and Spencer is 25.
In the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, Summer and Che break into a Brown science lab, attempting to free some bunnies that are living a pretty good life. I wish I was making this up, but Che actually brought what I think is a fife to lead the bunnies to the forest. Ecoterrorism isn't cool, especially with a fife. As you might expect, the dean (no relation to that cock chugger Dean Hess) gets wind of the fact that Summer and Che may have been involved, since they are the only two people at Brown stupid enough to do something like that. Both get called before the dean's board separately. Summer admits to the bunny freeing, but denies involvement in other previous idiotic acts of ecoterrorism that Che had committed. Che completely sells out Summer by telling the board that Summer committed said idiotic acts of ecoterrorism that he actually committed. Thus, Summer might get kicked out of Brown. Somehow Che thinks that what he did was noble and a "part of the movement." Che is gay. It rhymes and it's true. There, I said it.
Kaitlin asked Taylor, "Are yaw oka?" Taylor did not smack Kaitlin in the mouth repeatedly until Kaitlin pronounced it, "Are you okay?"
Sandy plays golf with a Texan oil tycoon named Gordon Bullitt (no mention as to whether he is the younger brother or nephew of Lt. Frank Bullitt) played by the guy who so masterfully played none other than Mr. Frank Kapowski on Saved By The Bell, who turns out to be Spencer's dad. Things turn awkward when Julie goes to a benefit with Bullitt, and Kaitlin brings Spencer. That's when we find out their father-son relationship. Meanwhile, Taylor shows up to the benefit in a sexy dress, and Ryan starts dancing with her and making jokes. Then Ryan tells Seth, "I'm not gonna date Taylor" (with "Taylor" annunicated like "Purdue" in "If all else fails, I guess I could always go to Purdue."). Of course Taylor overhears this and has a less than favorable reaction. Ryan says that he has no feelings for Taylor, but Taylor convinces Ryan that they need to make out in order to determine if there are any feelings. On account of the fact that Ryan Atwood cannot be forced into feeling anything, he rebuffs Taylor after they make out. However, Taylor's sex panthressness astounds even Ryan. As Taylor leaves the pool house feeling rejected, Ryan sits down on the bed, says "whoa" (in a manner much less annoying than Joey Lawrence, who, by the way, only succeeds when playing roles where the character's name is Joey). It is then that Ryan realizes that it's only a matter of time before Sandy or Kirsten walk into the pool house to find Ryan and Taylor slathered in edible raspberry KY in a reverse cowgirl with Santana's Abraxas blaring. Meanwhile, Bullitt, who is a total badass, decides to back Julie and Kirsten's dating service, essentially because -- like all Texans -- he has money to waste.
A McDonald's commercial I just saw reconfirmed my intense hatred of mimes. Currently I'm watching a rerun of Love Connection on the Game Show Network, while challenging myself to a laughing contest. Here are the two people that are describing their sex-filled date. Brian Hayden is 23, a carpenter and the runner-up of the 1991 greater Santa Monica Andre Agassi Lookalike Contest, and has never been married. Kelly is a hooker whose hair is similar to that of Gene Simmons. Her hobbies include shaving cats, tennis, and allowing blind dates to choose lingerie for her. She has never been married either.
Apparently things went pretty well between Brian and Kelly. Their "date" ended with young Brian sleeping over at Kelly's house -- I mean, Kelly's bedroom at her parents' house. Nice work Brian. Your mustache is offensive.
The Fortnight of Andrew trudges on. Last night, Christoff and I hit BW-3 for some wild, wings, and weck. Harry from the Matt, Jirko, and Harry show on ESPN 1000 was there doing a promotional thing for ESPN 1000. There were various trivia contests for prizes. Christoff's name got called, and he answered two Seinfeld questions correctly, netting him a Monday Night Football coozy -- the very same coozy that I received free at the end of the promotion because they had extra.
The fact that I received something for nothing, while Christoff was forced to answer two very easy questions in order to obtain the same thing did not sit well with me. I tossed and turned all night. At one point I had a dream that I knocked over some kid's plate of birthday cake at an outdoor birthday party and his dad got all pissed off at me. Hey, if your kid's gonna get in my way while I'm trying to get back to my hotel, then he shouldn't have such a big piece of cake on his plate. And some light weightlifting wouldn't hurt either. I woke up at about 5:15 this morning, and didn't fall back asleep until about 6:38. I was overcome with guilt.
I again woke up around 9 to take my coneheaded autistic dog for a walk that I hoped would result in urination and defecation. One out of two ain't bad. When I returned to the apartment, after carrying said dog up the stairs, I was sullen and weary, so I went back to bed until about 11. I love the Fortnight of Andrew.
After a healthy breakfast and a quick glass-blowing session, I decided to watch last night's The OC, which was anxiously awaiting me on the DVR.
Ryan was up all night watching Bollywood movies due to insomnia. Somehow, that is not helping Ryan fall asleep, probably because of some cheery -- yet completely unnecessary -- dance numbers. Who could sleep through that? Taylor is creaming herself over Ryan. Since she is a sex panthress, I think Ryan would be wise to let her manipulate his genitals. For Pete's sake, she "never sleeps more than four hours a night. It's unproductive." That means she likes to do it.
Meanwhile, Julie Cooper is banging some 25-year-old kraut that she tries to pass off as her personal trainer. If by "personal training," you mean "doing it." Kaitlin is trying to do her tennis instructor, whose name is predictably Spencer. Julie sees Spencer and decides that German she's humping is the wurst. Kaitlin sees Julie making out with Spencer and is somehow pissed off, even though Kaitlin is 15 and Spencer is 25.
In the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, Summer and Che break into a Brown science lab, attempting to free some bunnies that are living a pretty good life. I wish I was making this up, but Che actually brought what I think is a fife to lead the bunnies to the forest. Ecoterrorism isn't cool, especially with a fife. As you might expect, the dean (no relation to that cock chugger Dean Hess) gets wind of the fact that Summer and Che may have been involved, since they are the only two people at Brown stupid enough to do something like that. Both get called before the dean's board separately. Summer admits to the bunny freeing, but denies involvement in other previous idiotic acts of ecoterrorism that Che had committed. Che completely sells out Summer by telling the board that Summer committed said idiotic acts of ecoterrorism that he actually committed. Thus, Summer might get kicked out of Brown. Somehow Che thinks that what he did was noble and a "part of the movement." Che is gay. It rhymes and it's true. There, I said it.
Kaitlin asked Taylor, "Are yaw oka?" Taylor did not smack Kaitlin in the mouth repeatedly until Kaitlin pronounced it, "Are you okay?"
Sandy plays golf with a Texan oil tycoon named Gordon Bullitt (no mention as to whether he is the younger brother or nephew of Lt. Frank Bullitt) played by the guy who so masterfully played none other than Mr. Frank Kapowski on Saved By The Bell, who turns out to be Spencer's dad. Things turn awkward when Julie goes to a benefit with Bullitt, and Kaitlin brings Spencer. That's when we find out their father-son relationship. Meanwhile, Taylor shows up to the benefit in a sexy dress, and Ryan starts dancing with her and making jokes. Then Ryan tells Seth, "I'm not gonna date Taylor" (with "Taylor" annunicated like "Purdue" in "If all else fails, I guess I could always go to Purdue."). Of course Taylor overhears this and has a less than favorable reaction. Ryan says that he has no feelings for Taylor, but Taylor convinces Ryan that they need to make out in order to determine if there are any feelings. On account of the fact that Ryan Atwood cannot be forced into feeling anything, he rebuffs Taylor after they make out. However, Taylor's sex panthressness astounds even Ryan. As Taylor leaves the pool house feeling rejected, Ryan sits down on the bed, says "whoa" (in a manner much less annoying than Joey Lawrence, who, by the way, only succeeds when playing roles where the character's name is Joey). It is then that Ryan realizes that it's only a matter of time before Sandy or Kirsten walk into the pool house to find Ryan and Taylor slathered in edible raspberry KY in a reverse cowgirl with Santana's Abraxas blaring. Meanwhile, Bullitt, who is a total badass, decides to back Julie and Kirsten's dating service, essentially because -- like all Texans -- he has money to waste.
A McDonald's commercial I just saw reconfirmed my intense hatred of mimes. Currently I'm watching a rerun of Love Connection on the Game Show Network, while challenging myself to a laughing contest. Here are the two people that are describing their sex-filled date. Brian Hayden is 23, a carpenter and the runner-up of the 1991 greater Santa Monica Andre Agassi Lookalike Contest, and has never been married. Kelly is a hooker whose hair is similar to that of Gene Simmons. Her hobbies include shaving cats, tennis, and allowing blind dates to choose lingerie for her. She has never been married either.
Apparently things went pretty well between Brian and Kelly. Their "date" ended with young Brian sleeping over at Kelly's house -- I mean, Kelly's bedroom at her parents' house. Nice work Brian. Your mustache is offensive.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Hey, Here are Some Videos and Such
Hey, here are some videos and such (contributor of link in parentheses):
- 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)
Just Another Day
Well, the Fortnight of Andrew continues with the vigor of a paraplegic sloth.
So far today I have done the following:
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.
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.
Midwestern Eavesdropping - 11/30/06
Here's Midwestern Eavesdropping for this week:
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
Eavesdropper: GMYH
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
Eavesdropper: RobD
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
Eavesdropper: RDC
(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
Eavesdropper: GMYH
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
Eavesdropper: Klank
Blonde, discussing new boyfriend: "He's a landscape architect."
Special ed teacher: "Ooooh, I love those."
--Chicago, Cesar's, Clark & Belmont
Eavesdropper: GMYH
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.
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
Eavesdropper: GMYH
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
Eavesdropper: RobD
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
Eavesdropper: RDC
(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
Eavesdropper: GMYH
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
Eavesdropper: Klank
Blonde, discussing new boyfriend: "He's a landscape architect."
Special ed teacher: "Ooooh, I love those."
--Chicago, Cesar's, Clark & Belmont
Eavesdropper: GMYH
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
Conehead
Well, I picked Harley up from the vet. The Fortnight of Andrew just got a little bit more strenuous. The removal of a right ovary and a hyperplastic uterine pedicle has left Harley lethargic and confused. It's not that different than before except for a few things:
Currently I'm watching 8 Mile while challenging myself to a mom's spaghetti eating contest.
- 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.
A Night of Threes
Last night was up and down for the Fortnight of Andrew. Jester and I went to Rocks for dinner. We were joined soon thereafter by Ryan "Pissed Off" Christoff, the Brothers Weeser* (minus Greg of course), Nick "Pikey" Myers, Greg "Gregerson" Peterson, and his friends Nick and Other Guy Whose Name I Don't Remember.
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.
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
Bovary
I know you're all pretty bent out of shape about this whole Harley/Right Ovary situation, so I think constant updates are necessary.
I spoke with the vet about Harley's whereabouts. She's still there, so that's a plus. Other questions were answered:
Groggy? Yes.
Visitors? Highly discouraged.
Cone? Confirmed.
Hilarity? To ensue.
Going to Rocks to play trivia and watch IU/Duke? Hell yeah.
Sleeping in tomorrow? Indeed.
Long Live the Fortnight.
I spoke with the vet about Harley's whereabouts. She's still there, so that's a plus. Other questions were answered:
Groggy? Yes.
Visitors? Highly discouraged.
Cone? Confirmed.
Hilarity? To ensue.
Going to Rocks to play trivia and watch IU/Duke? Hell yeah.
Sleeping in tomorrow? Indeed.
Long Live the Fortnight.
Oops, Forgot Your Ovary!
So the Fortnight of Andrew continues, even if today has been unceremonious. The morning started with protein shake and then some abdominal crunches. I can do a thousand now.
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.
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
The Fortnight of Andrew
What a nice long weekend I had. After getting told I had to vacate my former employer, I spent Tuesday night drinking ale and the like, with an ear-to-ear grin on my face. I discovered that the drunker I get, the better I am at video bowling. You might as well call me Parker Bohn III when I'm in front of a Silver Strike machine.
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.
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
"What a Glorious Feeling, I'm Happy Again"
I like you guys. That's why I don't hesitate to share my pain -- or in this case, joy -- with you.
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!"
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!"
Turkey
Turkey, whether literally or figuratively, will be preventing me from posting for the next few days. Not the former Ottoman Empire, although it was formidable and I do live in constant fear of it. I am referring to the bird that most of us will be eating Thursday. Jessie and I, however, will be completing our Three Thanksgiving Dinners In Three Days whirlwind tour of the Midwest, heading to H-town (that's Huntington, IN, not Houston) tomorrow, where will be eating turkey on Thursday. Then we will travel back to the Chicagoland area for dinner #2 on Friday at me mither's and dinner #3 on Saturday at my dad's hizzie. Thus, I will likely be in a three-day tryptophan-laden bender, which will prevent me from posting.
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):
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
Karma
The past few days have been a whirlwind of adventure, disappointment, and joy.
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.
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
"I'm So Tired of Tryin'"
Hair Band Friday is pretty mellow this week, probably because we've been smoking copious amounts of opium. If you've never written a motion for leave to file a third-party complaint with an opium buzz, it's exhausting, mainly because it's hard to type while lying on the floor with no good view of the monitor. At least there are some sweet tunes blasting through my speakers to keep me somewhat alert. The last three songs were "Fool For Your Loving" by Whitesnake, "Visions" by Savatage, and "Sex" by Kix. Speaking of which, Mindi and Bill have been trying to engage in missionary-position sexual intercourse in the corner for the past four hours, but they keep falling asleep. Perfect opportunity for a double deadhorse, in my opinion, but I can barely keep my eyes open, much less find the strength and courage to crawl over there an attempt to do Mindi while trying to find a chick awake enough to put on a strap-on. I would ask Lexi, but she is attempting to fellate a stapler because she doesn't have the strength to stand up, and it's the only thing she can reach. Oh well. We'll rock harder in two weeks.
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:
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?
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