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.
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