Midwestern Eavesdropping - 2/15/07

Here's some Midwestern Eavesdropping:

Twenty something male attorney runs into 30ish mistress/girlfriend of infamous local plaintiff's attorney ("that guy" who runs tv ads 24/7 and is prominently displayed on the back cover of the phonebook) on his way to work:
Attorney: "It sucks walking to work when it's this cold outside. I bet it's about zero degrees out here."
Mistress (dead serious): "More like MINUS zero, probably."
--Dayton
Eavesdropper: Holt

A girl best described as “orca-fat” wearing a belly shirt exposing a lifetime of lard consumption walks past:
Fleece Vest: “Jesus, have some goddamn dignity.”
Button Down: “I hooked up with her.”
Fleece Vest: “Are you fucking serious?”
Button Down: “Yep.”
Fleece Vest: “But… how?”
Button Down: “It wasn’t that difficult.”
Fleece Vest: “She’s like a wooly mammoth, dude.”
Button Down (shrugging): “I’ve done worse.”
Fleece Vest: “How is that possible?”
Button Down: “She’s still got both her arms.”
--Bloomington , IN, Nick's English Hut
Eavesdropper: RobD

Late 20s male, Saturday morning after a pancake eating contest the night before: "All of my dreams last night consisted of me crapping my pants."
--Cincinnati, Mt. Lookout
Eavesdropper: Tron

Young profession walks into LaSalle Bank on one of the coldest days of the year amidst one this years snow storms, completely bundled and obviously on the brink of actually freezing. Completely serious the teller looks at him and says: "Is it still cold out there?"
--Chicago, IL, LaSalle Bank, Dearborn and Monroe
Eavesdropper: Klank

Guy: “You go here, or are you just in town for the weekend?”
Girl: “No, I go to school here.”
Guy: “What year are you?”
Girl: “Nineteen.”
Guy (pauses): “So… sophomore?”
-- Bloomington , IN, Kilroy's
Eavesdropper: RobD

Elevated railcar conductor over in-train speaker system after train had been stopped on the tracks in between stations for several minutes: "Ladies and gentlemen, we're stopped because there was a situation with a train stopped at the Segdwick station. Apparently a passenger was exposing himself on the train. The police are at Sedgwick, and we're waiting until they remove him from the train."
--Chicago, Purple Line train
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Guy 1: “Shot time… what do you want?”
Guy 2 (without hesitation): “Mexican Cousin” – points at girl in line – “She’s doing one too.”
Girl: “I’ll do it, but at least tell me what’s in it.”
Bartender: “Don’t ask me.”
Guy 2: “Tequila, Jack, Midori , Tabasco .”
[Bartender winces]
Girl: “Oh… God.”
[shots are taken]
Girl: “Shit… that was spicy. Goddammit it, my tongue’s gonna swell up. Hang on.”
--Bloomington , IN, Nick's
Eavesdropper: RobD

Two twenty something guys Walking past a Chicago Bears souvenir store on Monroe:
Guy 1: "What do you think they do with the t-shirts they print before the super bowl for the team that loses?"
Guy 2: "I think they give them to world aid organizations."
Guy 1: "So you mean to tell some deprived child in a third world country actually believes the Bears won they super bowl? That's awesome."
--Chicago, Clark & Monroe
Eavesdropper: Klank

Guy: "Holy shit, I just farted, and it smells like being inside a pumpkin. I’m serious. No, seriously, you gotta check this out."
--Bloomington, IN, 3rd & Dunn
Eavesdropper: RobD

This one's not really eavesdropping, but I thought it was strange/funny:
Button on twentysomething professional female's backpack: "First Lady of the World, Eleanor Roosevelt" circling a picture of some old bull dyke.--Chicago, Washington & Wells L platformEavesdropper: GMYH

Thanks to all who contributed. As always, if you overhear something funny, email it to gmyhblog@yahoo.com for inclusion in the next edition of the world-famous Midwestern Eavesropping.

Happy Valentine's Day Jester!

My lovely wife Jessie always complains that I never write about her or say anything nice about her on this abortion that I call a "web log." She is right, since most of the times I write about her involve her fighting a dumpster wheel in a snowy alley behind a bar. As this is St. Valentine's Day -- and since I am one cheap SOB -- I figured it's high time to write a nice post about the woman I married, or, more appropriately, who allowed me to marry her. In addition to her physical beauty and rapist's wit, she is one of the most caring and genuinely kind people I know. I think she assumes that I don't notice all of the many nice things she does, such as making most dinners, cleaning the apartment, vacuuming, doing most of the laundry (which is mostly mine), taking the dog out most of the time, and putting up with me. I'm just going to come right out and say that I am not always a pleasure to deal with, talk to, be around, or sleep next to. Most nights when I get home from work, I immediately sit on the couch and surf the web while Jessie makes dinner. I often let dirty dishes pile up in the sink for days and sometimes weeks at a time before I even attempt to wash them, even though she repeatedly asks me to wash them. Last night, I got home from work, changed clothes, kissed her on the cheek, and then left her to go play trivia at Rocks. When I got home after 2 a.m. and she woke up, I lied and said that I had been home for over an hour, but that I fell asleep on the couch. I didn't take the dog out either. Often times, I smoke cigarettes in her presence, even though I know she absolutely despises the fact that I smoke now and then. I don't have any plans to quit social smoking. Most of the time, I make plans for us without consulting her, and those plans usually involve hanging out with my friends, who I often put before her. I rarely call her Jessie, instead referring to her as Jester or, when she performs card tricks and optical illusions, Jesterio the Magnificent. I make up stories about her. I have a tendency to be unnecessarily longwinded. Most of the time I put my wants before hers. I am unwilling to change. I don't take care of plants very well. There is at least one lie in nearly every sentence I speak. I rarely take anything seriously. My shit reeks. I actively despise much of the music she listens to. Sometimes I watch her sleep. I drive too fast. Instead of taking her out to dinner on Valentine's Day, I took an online pop culture quiz. Instead of giving her a Valentine's Day present, I wrote a post about her on my blog. My sense of fashion can only be described as severely lacking. I have little confidence in my abilities and personal appearance. On more than one occasion, I have been told that I give terrible back rubs. I feel the need to tell people about my weird dreams. When we're alone, I am annoyingly overaffectionate. My singing voice is below average. I continuously and consciously fail to learn from my mistakes. In addition to my many personality flaws, I am physically unappealing. I am by no means as handsome as a young George Peppard, I allow my fingernails and toenails to grow beyond a length that is socially acceptable for a straight man, I suffer from a continuously worsening case of psoriasis, my liver is hardening while my gut is growing, and, despite the fact that I am nearly thirty, the oil in my skin is akin to that of a sixteen-year-old Grecian. I cannot dunk a basketball, and the chances of that ever happening decrease with every passing day. In the bedroom, I underachieve, and I might be impotent. Also, my body temperature under the covers is near 200 degrees. My unabashed self-deprecation can be overbearing at times. My entire existence is built around pleasing myself. Even when something is supposed to be about Jessie, I manage to completely turn it around and make it about me. As far as I can tell, my only redeeming quality is that I possess an uncanny ability to choose a wife who is the absolute perfect woman for me. I love you, hon. Sorry I'm such jackass. I wish I could change.

I Hate MASH

So last night trivia at Rocks was nothing short of extraordinary. Charles Darwin 1 Anna Nicole 0 (comprised of Gregerson, Christoff, Remus, the brothers Weeser*, minus Greg of course, and me) finished the final round tied for the lead. It was the first ever tie in Rocks trivia history. There was then a 3-question sudden death tiebreaker. So of course there was a question about MASH, a show that none of us watch, watched, or will ever watch. That ended up being the difference. So we finished 2nd. Next week's trivia round of choice will be Dazed and Confused.

I didn't have any dreams that I wholly remembered last night. That being said, Christoff recently called into question the authenticity of my dreams. I will tell you what I told him, though with fewer four-letter words and accusations about your sexual orientation. Sadly, there is no exaggeration in my recounts of my dreams. You have to realize that I am by no means mentally stable. My head contains both conscious and subconscious thoughts that are beyond unhealthy and bizarre. I have had weird dreams for as long as I can remember, the first of which I can recall is from when I was about 4 and petrified of the Incredible Hulk. Wanting to exploit my fears for his own amusement, God made my dream as follows: This all took place in an exact replica of my Spring, Texas residence, where I was reared from ages three months to seven years and ten months. My parents left me at home alone (Reed was still dead at this point) while they went to dinner. Even though I was 4 at the time, this did not seem weird in the context of the dream. After seeing them out the front door, I retired to the living room. I was wearing a fedora and smoking a pipe while reading the newspaper, lying on my back on the floor next to the couch. I heard some rustling in other parts of the room, and before I knew it, Incredible Hulks of differing sizes and colors were jumping on top of me, with the assumed goal of smothering me to death. Since that time, my dreams have been vivid, strange, often macabre, and it is rare that I wake up remembering nothing of what I dreamt the night before. Go to hell Ryan.

Weekend of Rest

My weekend was fairly pedestrian. It was the first weekend in a long while that I did not go out either night. Friday night, that was due in large part to the fact that I got the dreaded call from the boss at 4:30pm for an emergency project. Thus, I was at work until 9:15 Friday night. Saturday during the day, Jester, Christoff, his special ladyfriend, Gregerson, and I went to Stanley's for the never-before-attempted combination of brunch and IU basketball. It was decent, although my arteries have strongly suggested that I lay off the Stanley's brunch for a while. Not feeling the groove, we went to Rocks at halftime, where we met up with Shemmer (Matt, not Chris), Reising (Abe, not Adam), Andy Wood (Pi Kapp, not deceased lead singer of Mother Love Bone), and Colin (Trent, not Powell). IU beat the Whining Illini, so that was good, although the game was closer than I would have liked. On the bright side, we did hear some King Konga over the speakers after the game.

My total hours slept for Friday and Saturday night came to about 21.5, which is more than I usually get in three nights of sleep, so that was awesome.

Did anyone else have that dream Thursday night where you were a cop and Forest Whittaker was your partner, and you guys had a HUGE convict (picture a fatter version of Michael Clarke Duncan) that you were transporting, and for some reason you decided to stop a grocery store, which was connected to a bar, which was connected to a bowling alley, and then the convict escaped in the store/bar/bowling alley, so you and Forest Whittaker were running up and down every aisle looking for him, saying things like, "How hard can it be to find a 350-pound man in a grocery store?", and then you run through the bar and almost get hit in the head with a dart, and then you open the door to the bar's cellar, and the convict is in there, and he begrudgingly comes up the stairs, and you and Whittaker hold him down and give him two tranquilizer shots, but the convict is deathly afraid of needles, and your injection into his arm goes well, but Whittaker for some reason decides to inject his leg and hits not flesh, but all shin bone, to which the convict rightfully asks, "Did you just put a needle in my shin bone?" and then the convict finally passes out from the tranquilizers, and then there is an ad on the bar's TV for syringes, which you thought was apropos because you had just used your last syringe with the aforementioned tranquilizer? No? Just me?

Also, did anyone have that dream last night where you were at some sort of slumber party and Axl Rose showed up and was watching a movie with you and your friends, and everyone was pretty cool about it, and then Axl started to get mischievous, and he wanted to play some pranks on people sleeping in other rooms, which included some unknown prank where the window needed to be open, but when Axl opened the window, he realized it was raining outside, which meant that this unknown prank could not go forward because, in Axl's words, he "didn't want anyone to get wet," so then everyone just went back into the living room and continued watching a movie? I have to think that some of you had this dream. Holt, Christoff, Veeser, Busch, you were there.

Good Bye Sweet Princess

A couple things today:

First, Midwestern Eavesdropping will be postponed until next week.

Second, did anyone else have that dream last night where the temperatures had risen into the 60s or 70s, prompting George and Tim, the owners of Rocks, to open an ice cream shop (perhaps a shoppe) at the southeast corner of Halsted and Division (in that brick building that now houses the Chicago Bungalow Association), and they let Jessie go behind the counter and make her own malt, and lots of people pulling boats behind pickup trucks were parked outside? It can't be just me.

Third, the federal government's Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration has named Chicago the #1 binge-drinking city in the US. My theory as to why our fair city received this distinguished honor is as follows:

• The Irish. It's the curse of those people, you know.
• Chicago's plethora of neighborhood bars mean that a pint is never farther than a couple blocks' walk. Seriously, within one block of my apartment there are no less than four bars.
• During the harsh winters, there is nowhere else to go except bars and nothing else to do except drink. It's true.
• During the blistering summers, Chicagoans need a frosty beverage to cool themselves off.
• During the five to seven days a year when the weather is perfect, Chicagoans cream all over themselves, and feel the need to take advantage of the many outdoor patios and beer gardens available for binge drinking.
• Chicago's sports teams drive their fans to drink. Chicago's sports fans are extremely passionate, which doesn't bode well for livers when you consider that the Cubs haven't won a World Series in 99 years, the Blackhawks haven't won a Stanley Cup in 46 years, the Bears haven't won a Super Bowl in 21 years and are currently led by Rex Grossman, the Bulls will never be as good as they were in the '90s, and Sox fans are cynics, most of whom fear that it will be another 88 years between World Series victories (which would be 2093 and, interestingly, would mean that the Sox had won 3 World Series rings in the 185 years since the Cubs' last ring).

So you see, if you got rid of the Irish, the bars, passionate sports fans, and all weather, Chicago would just be your average Los Angeles (which came in 15th of 15 metropolitan areas in the binge-drinking study, with a paltry binge-drinking rate of 18.6%), and I don't think anyone wants that.

Fourth, I'm sure that by now most of you have heard about Scott Wiese, the diehard Bears fan who is making good on his pre-Super Bowl promise to change his name to Peyton Manning if the Bears lost. At first I thought, 'what a moron,' but the more I think about it, this move is genius. First of all, even if the judge doesn't approve the name change, he lives in Decatur, Illinois, which means the mere fact that his name was mentioned in national media outlets guarantees him at least two or three pieces of that legendary Decatur ass. Second, if the judge does approve the name change, then Wiese – er, I mean Manning – will have guaranteed a reservation at any and every restaurant where he wants to dine. "Hello, Olive Garden, I need a table for one tonight at 7. What's that? You don't have any tables for tonight at 7? Hmm, that's interesting. Perhaps I failed to mention my name: Peyton Manning. Oh, a table just opened up? That's what I thought. Smell ya later, douche." Of course his little experiment will backfire spectacularly if the real Peyton Manning dies within the next couple years, perhaps in a freak accident involving moooovers, steam burns from a cappuccino machine, or an errant, forcefully thrown newspaper. If that happens, fake Peyton Manning will just seem like a giant asshole.

Fifth, why am I not surprised that Anna Nicole Smith died*? It seemed like she had tempted fate long enough. The grim reaper has been after her for years, accidentally missing her and instead hitting her husband, her dead husband's son, and her own son. At least her infant daughter was spared by death's haphazard hand, and should now have a normal life, aside from the fact that she is named Dannielynn and for the past several months she has been ingesting whatever barbiturate-and-TrimSpa-infused milk spewed from the two boulders that resided on Anna Nicole's chest. On the bright side, Dannielynn will have possibly inherited nearly a billion dollars and will never have to experience the misery of trying to comprehend her drugged-up mother attempting to string together some words to form a sentence. Dare I say that Dannielynn's life will be better without Anna Nicole? Indeed, I dare.

*Jessie's theory is that she died of a "TrimSpa Cocktail," which she assumes was comprised of TrimSpa pills, cocaine, and Xanax

Pull the Trigger of My . . .

Well, trivia at Rock's last night was a bust. As previously mentioned, since Gregerson's team finished second last week, he got to choose a category, and he chose D-1A college football mascots. Unfortunately, the category ended up being far too easy because Kevin (the guy who runs trivia) picked big schools that everyone's heard of, and he made it a match game, so all the answers were right there. Our team, No One Famous Died This Week (comprised of me, Christoff, Gregerson, and Remus), was neck and neck throughout the entire night, finishing third by a couple points. The second-place team, Peyton Manning Has Crabs, put up a valiant effort, considering it was just one dude. His category for next week: The Family Guy. That should be good.

By the way, did anyone else have that dream last night where KISS was playing a private show (unmasked, unfortunately) at a second-floor bar in a mall-like structure (possibly Fourth Street Live in Louisville), and a bunch of people that you went to grade school with were there, and rumors were flying that Kate L. and Danny M. were "fucking" (that's not your term, but rather the term used by the chick in the dream who told you), which apparently wasn't good because, according to Kate's mom, who was chaperoning, Kate was married (although her husband wasn't there, and there may have been some underlying marital issues, but you really didn't get into that because you thought it was pretty sweet that Danny was boinking Kate, especially since they grew up on the same block, and you know what, if she wants to get it on with a friend of yours, who are you to object?), and a couple other girls (possibly Katie S. and Kate W.) were complaining that members of KISS groped them, and you came to Ace Frehley's defense because, while Ace Frehley may unknowingly ingest his wife's contact lenses and may pretend to eat super steak nachos alongside bats, Korean-American females, and distraught Revolutionary War generals, Ace Frehley does not -- you repeat, does not -- grope women, and the girls confirmed that it was only Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley who groped them, and then they actually started to prod and tickle you to demonstrate how they were groped by Stanley and Simmons, and, despite how uncomfortable and "icky" the tickling and prodding made you feel, you didn't really care because you were five feet from KISS, who was playing a private show only for Cossitt School's Class of 1990, and they played "Rock and Roll All Nite," "Got to Choose," "Calling Dr. Love," "Ladies Room," and possibly "Deuce" before Gene Simmons started taking requests from the audience, and you wanted them to play "Shock Me," but Ace Frehley had been replaced halfway through the set (presumably by Vinnie Vincent, Mark St. John, Bruce Kulick, or Tommy Thayer), so no one would be able to sing "Shock Me," so then you drew a blank on what you wanted them to play next, but then Greg Weeser* (who, interestingly, once dated Kate and is very good friends with Danny, but whose feelings toward their alleged carnal relations can only be described as conscious indifference) requested "Strutter," which was a pretty solid request, and then after the show you went to your mom's house to figure out what other songs you should have requested by looking at your collection of KISS vinyls, which were sitting on top of your wooden dresser in your old bedroom (which was severely warped, although this is the first you've ever seen of that), and none of which corresponded to the real KISS album covers or names, except for 1977's Love Gun (which makes sense, since that was the year you and many of your classmates were born), and then you discovered under the KISS records that you also had three Iron Maiden albums, which you thought was kind of ironic because you really only started getting into Iron Maiden within the last year, but the presence of the albums suggested that you had access to their music for the past twenty to twenty-five years? No? Just me? Man, you guys need to start having better dreams. Needless to say, I'm going to make an effort to post more of my dreams, since they exhibit just how mentally unstable I am, and I'm sure some loyal GMYH reader will have had the same dream, perhaps even from a different point of view (band member rather than concert attendee, wife rather than husband, dominatrix rather than gimp, victim rather than strangler, etc.), which I think would be interesting and worth knowing, so I can correct any uncouth behavior (or behaviour, for you British readers).

By the way, Harry and the Hendersons starts at 7:05 Central tonight on HBO Family West (channel 508 for those of you with DirecTV). I will not be watching.

You Better Astro-Not Do That Again

I don't know if any of you have heard about this, but NASA astronaut Lisa Marie Nowak went bat shit nuts this past weekend and drove 900 miles from Houston to Orlando to confront a woman named Colleen Shipman, who Nowak perceived to be a "romantic rival" for the affection of fellow astronaut (and total dreamboat) William Oefelien.

After reading the story, I think you'll agree with me that this is almost as crazy as the time Russell Huxtable was being pursued by both his future wife Anna and her chief rival for Russell's affection, some trick named Adda. In order to show Anna that she was his main squeeze, Russell decided to have Anna's name tattooed on his chest, but he was suffering from a cold at the time. The tattoo artist misunderstood him and tattooed "Adda" across Russell's chest! Oh the irony that he was being pursued by two women with similar sounding names! Understandably, Anna forced Russell to have the tattoo removed, leaving him with a permanent scar. The kicker is that Russell had always told Cliff that he got that scar fighting off a Nazi panzer attack in WWII. Everyone shared a good laugh because maybe the earring that Theo got to impress a girl wasn't so bad after all. At least he didn't try to straighten his hair and burn it all off instead, like Cliff did once upon a time in an attempt to impress Clair.

On second thought, Nowak's story is probably funnier than all three Huxtable stories combined. Here are the important details:

• Nowak -- who is married and has three kids -- apparently had (and possibly still has) the hots for Oefelien, despite the fact that his last name is nearly unpronounceable. But, the guy did pilot the Discovery this past December, and he did "beg[in] his aviation career as a teenager flying floatplanes in Alaska." That alone is enough to make any female astronaut moist, save for Christa McAuliffe, Judith Resnik, Kalpana Chawla, and Laurel Clark, of course (too soon?).
• In her arrest affidavit, Nowak described her relationship with Oefelein as "more than a working relationship but less than a romantic relationship." What she's describing sounds a lot like "friendship," but hey, I'm not an astronaut.
• After somehow finding out that Shipman was going to visit Oefelien in Orlando, "Nowak raced from Houston to Orlando wearing diapers in the car so she wouldn't have to stop to go to the bathroom." Thank you Associated Press for putting that picture in my head.
• Nowak's end to these urine- and feces-soaked means was to confront Shipman. Thus, Nowak got Orlando International Airport -- they have a great people mover there, by the way -- and waited for Shipman to land. She then boarded the same shuttle bus as Shipman and followed her to the parking garage. Oh, I forgot to mention that Nowak was wearing a wig and a trench coat.
• Once Shipman got to her car, Nowak confronted her under the classic "I'm wearing a wig and a trench coat, so I need a ride" guise. When Shipman refused, Nowak sprayed pepper spray into her car. Shipman somehow drove off and called the cops.
• As with most astronauts who stalk their rivals like prey, Nowak only wanted to scare Shipman into talking to her about her relationship with Oefelein, but didn't want to harm her physically. Nowak's story was further bolstered by what police found in her car, on her person, and in a motel room where she was probably going to take Shipman to "talk": a BB gun, an unused BB gun cartridge, pepper spray, a steel mallet, a 4-inch folding knife, rubber tubing, $600, garbage bags, latex gloves, emails between Shipman and Oefelein, an opened package for a buck knife, a letter in which Nowak professed her love for Oefelein (why she needed this to kidnap and murder Shipman is unclear, but then again, I'm not an astronaut), Shipman's home address, and handwritten directions to Shipman's house.
• If it was Nowak's intent to woo Oefelein after kidnapping and murdering Shipman, you would think she would have presented herself a little bit better than this:Jesus, she looks like that tranny that Felicity Huffman played in Transamerica. No wonder she was worried about Shipman moving in on her non-boyfriend.

Worst Weekend Ever

In a wildly successful effort to keep me humble, God -- or, more appropriately, Odin -- once again rained shit upon me this weekend.

The day or two before the weekend was ominously good. Wednesday night, IU beat #2 Wisconsin, which was obviously a nice win for the Hoosiers. Thursday night I bought a $10 "Merry Millionaires" scratch-off lottery ticket, which ended up being worth $100. It was at that exact moment that my karma ran dry.

In spite of predictions made by Pennsylvanian woodland creatures, the temperatures dropped, such that I don't think double digits were reached at any point this weekend. Further toying with me, God (or whichever god is in charge of this kind of shit -- probably that drunk asshole Dionysus) propounded the following Yahoo horoscope:

"If your ego has been feeling a bit battered lately, get ready for that to change today. But don't look to outside forces -- this change will come entirely from inside of you. Suddenly, you'll accurately see how you compare with other people -- and you'll realize that you possess remarkable abilities that other people do not. Take an objective look at how you're progressing on your latest project. You're way ahead of the competition, so keep going!"

Given that Friday evening I would be trying out for VH1's World Series of Pop Culture, I thought this was a good sign. But I also thought Boston was the greatest band of all-time at one point in my life, so I may have a tendency to misjudge the importance of certain things.

I met up with my teammates, Beth and Jaleh, at the W on Lake Shore, which is where the tryouts were being conducted. Our team name was Sink the Biz, which we assumed guaranteed victory. The way WSOPC tryouts work is that every hour about 20 teams are ushered into a big room. Everyone must individually take a pop culture quiz, consisting of 50 fill-in-the-blank questions, in 15 minutes. After the quiz, they tally up the scores, come back into the room and announce the 3 or 4 teams with the highest total scores (i.e., when the scores of all 3 teammates are added together), who then get to be interviewed by the people from VH1. They don't announce any scores or anything other than which teams advanced. These tryouts took place every hour all day Friday and Saturday. Saturday night, VH1 chose 8 teams from the winners of prelims to come back on Sunday for a tournament played in the WSOPC format. The winner of this regional tournament automatically advances to the WSOPC. There are five regional tournaments, so the remaining 11 teams are chosen by the show's producers (from the pool of the regional tournament losers).

The quiz itself was not nearly as difficult as I imagined it would be. Unfortunately, VH1 binds everyone who tries out with a confidentiality agreement, or else I would reveal some of the questions. I thought they had a nice mix of questions from the '80s, '90s, and '00s. There were definitely some weed-out questions, some of which I knew and some of which I didn't. Overall, Beth, Jaleh, and I felt pretty good (at least like we got 40+ out of 50). We were devastated when Sink the Biz was not called. Our theory is that we were tied for 4th with several other teams, one point behind the three teams that advanced. Obviously our theory cannot be proven, nor did it provide us with any solace.

Friday night we all went to Alive One to drown our sorrows. When we got there, it was pretty empty. At first we sat at a table with a Steely Dan record shellacked into it. It turns out that Jaleh shares my intense hatred of Steely Dan, so we moved to a table featuring miniatures photos of The Doors. Much better.

While at Alive One, we encountered a six-foot-six Scandinavian vampire named Vlad, who had an unbelievably large jaw and perhaps the worst smile in the history of the world. [GMYH Note: While his name was not Olaf and he did not know the words to "Berserker," Vlad did have a pretty sweet on-command "metal face." I did not confirm, but have a strong suspicion, that when he asks a woman to have sex with him, he says, "Would you like some making fuck?"] He was flanked by his undead, non-Aryan, smug boy toy, Szandor, who apparently mistook the below-zero temperatures for rain, as evidenced by his slicker. Surprisingly their images showed up when photographed, but maybe it's just that they don't cast reflections in mirrors. Regardless, we all got a good scare. This would be the most pleasant of all my dealings with Scandinavians this weekend.

There was also some dude wearing one of those ridiculous looking winter hats with a bill. Whoever invented those needs to be castrated (or oophorectomied). Nothing quite says, "I am a giant douche" than a guy who refuses to take off his billed winter hat (which is for some reason tilted slightly to the right) when he is inside a bar. That guy must get so much ass, mostly from chicks who wear furry boots with their jeans tucked into them and sunglasses that are far too large for their heads. "Look at my fuckin' hat, bitch. I'm so damn cool I gotta wear a hat to contain as much heat as possible. I'm sure as shit not letting any heat escape from my head or letting any water run down the right side of my face. You're hot. I like your boots. You know my dick is huge, right? Let's cut out the pleasantries, finish our Grey Goose and tonics, go back to my place, and get fucking naked. I wanna see your pussy. We'll listen to Coldplay. I'll probably make you come like 800 fucking times, but I probably won't come because it's unlikely that your mouth, vagina, or anus is large enough to accommodate my enormous member. Maybe I can use one of your boots." How he was allowed north of Beaumont's remains a mystery. Interestingly, my anger and intolerance could have been displaced by joy and acceptance had he only been wearing a captain's hat.

Saturday started out nicely enough, with a trip to Stanley's for their renowned breakfast buffet. After that, Beth left, and the rest of us went to Christoff's to watch IU lose to Iowa in Iowa City. It might have been one of the most infuriating games to watch, mainly because every time down the court there was a foul called. Seriously, there were 56 fouls called in the game. That's one every 42.86 seconds. There were only two players who saw court time that did not commit a foul. One of them played for four minutes, and one of them for one. Despite the fact that IU had only 2 more fouls than Iowa, Iowa went to the free throw line 14 more times. Is it me, or has Adam Haluska been at Iowa since the Clinton administration? Didn't he come in with Acie Earl? Needless to say, I'm sick of seeing his boney, sallow face. And after Saturday, I'm also sick of seeing his fiancé's fake tanned, botox-injected face. Good Lord, ESPN, we get it: Adam Haluska is marrying up. One shot of his fiancé would have sufficed, rather than 318. She isn't Mateen Cleeves's mom, for Christ's sake.

After the game, we went to Ikea because Jessie wanted to get a platform bed, and I wanted to get some more spacious DVD shelving. We picked out a nice dark brown bed and loaded it into The Blaab, who was happy to see that we were supporting a Swedish economy still recovering from its economic crisis in the '90s. Some deep dish pizza from Uno's calmed everyone's appetites, and we headed back to the city. It was a low-key night, which involved watching Beer Fest while I assembled my new DVD shelves. Of the Broken Lizard films, I would say that Beer Fest is the worst. It lacks the hilarity of Super Troopers and the Brittany Daniel of Club Dread.

Sunday started out decently enough. I woke up, had some cold pizza, and watched some VH1 Classic. Jaleh took off in the morning, and at some point in the early afternoon, Jessie and I decided to put our platform bed together. You can imagine our surprise when we opened the three boxes to find that our bed was not the dark brown we picked out, but rather the complete opposite: white. Thanks Ikea. Good work on putting the right colored stickers with the corresponding beds. Fucking Swedes. What should I expect from a country with a sizeable population of people who practice Germanic neopaganism? Explaining to a livid and manic Jessie that I was not about to go back to Schaumburg, I assembled the white bed, whereupon I ran into another problem: there was no middle support beam. It turns out that you have to buy that separately. I sure would have loved to have been told that the first time I was at Ikea. Again, the Swedes falter. What should I expect from a country whose foreign policy is one of deliberate neutrality? I wonder if Laplanders run into these kinds of problems with any sort of regularity. Desiring to sleep in a bed Sunday night, Jessie and I decided at 2:14 (approximately 2 hours and 16 minutes before we were to be at Christoff's house for the Super Bowl) that we had to go back to Schaumburg after all. The Blaab ensured that our trek was smooth and fairly fast, as we cursed the Swedes the whole way there and back for their lack of directional ability. What should I expect from a country that has a unicameral legislature? What is this, Nebraska? On the way back, we picked up Ari, who was also going to Christoff's. We arrived back at our place a little before 4, and tossed the middle beam on the ground for assembly after the Bears game.

The Super Bowl was one of the least watchable Super Bowls since last year's barnburner. The smorgasbord of cream-cheese- and sour-cream-based dips did little to comfort me while the Bears stopped playing football after the first quarter. If the game wasn't bad enough, I thought the commercials were generally sub par this year. The Letterman/Oprah commercial was good, as was the Bud Light ad with the foreigners. What the fuck was with the suicidal GMC robot? Is that supposed to be a metaphor for all of the recently laid-off GM workers? If so, that's hilarious.

After the game, I was excited to put the finishing touches on the new bed and get to sleep. Obviously I wouldn't be mentioning it if it went that easily. After installing the middle beam and the spider-leg-like metal rungs protruding from the beam to the side ledges, I assumed that insertion of the mattress would mark the end of this Swede-hate-filled experiment. Of course not. When I put the mattress down, it bent around the middle beam, creating the kind of convex shape that makes sleep both uncomfortable and unpredictable. It seems that there are some separately sold slats that prevent this, which, of course, Ikea does not make clear. Thank you again King Gustav for spawning a country of bastards who bathe themselves in purposeful ambiguity. Then again, what should I expect from a people whose unpredictable musical taste ranges from Ace of Base to black metal?

Thus, last night, I slept on a bare, sloped mattress, with an unattached fitted sheet, a disheveled bed spread, and blood boiling with the rage of a thousand Irishmen to keep me warm, while Jessie slept in the twin bed in the second bedroom. I awoke this morning still angry and confused. Did anyone else have that dream where different teams of fighter planes were involved in a race from California to the Upper Peninsula and then you had to shower in a closet full of clothes? No? Just me? It probably relates to me having to go back to Ikea to get those fucking slats.

This morning the temperature on way to work was -11, without the windchill. Tomorrow is a high of 14. In the completely irrelevant words of Elmore James, I'm gonna get up in the morning, I believe I'll dust my broom. I guess they could be relevant if I switched out "dust" for "poke out" and "my broom" for "the eyes of every single blond SOB whistling 'Mamma Mia.'"

Bluff the Donkey Updated

Midwestern Eavesdropping - 2/1/07

Here's some Midwestern Eavesdropping. Not much, but some:

Twentysomething librarian looking at her possibly autistic dog: "Do you ever bubble over with joy for how much you love our dog?"
--Chicago, Kenmore & Diversey
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Twentysomething special ed teacher: "I want to have a goat farm. That would be my dream. . . . [My husband] and I have talked about this and a goat farm would be perfect for us. I've just never met a goat I didn't like."
--Chicago, Rock's, Schubert & Lakewood
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Guy on his cell phone: "This is another thing that pisses me off about myself...."
--Chicago, Loyola Law Library
Eavesdropper: ½ Pint

Guy walking out of bar: "Did you guys see that? I just knocked some guy's sword out of his hand."
--Chicago, Deja Vu, Lincoln & Kenmore
Eavesdropper: GMYH

I want some more submissions, people. Dammit you guys, start eavesdropping. I want a concerted effort to listen in on the conversations of strangers, and when you overhear something hilarious, ironic, stupid, or disgusting, email it to gmyhblog@yahoo.com.