Guilt Trippin'

Holy shit! I got a burnt by a shame thrower yesterday. Bad.

I was planning on visiting my friend Kellie in Grand Rapids yesterday.

(Lee and Kellie, lookin' all grown up, and slightly deranged)


I canceled via email in the wee morning hours, like a yellow bellied scoundrel. My reasoning was simple: (Arctic cold snap + snow+ icy roads) = difficult travels. I knew it was a pussy excuse, but it seemed rational at the time.

I must've poked a dog in the eye on this one.

When I woke up, I was feeling much better than the night before. Until I opened an email from Kellie. Now, Kellie is neither a Jew nor a mother, but I'll be damned if she didn't secretly train at a Jewish Mother academy. Oy! She pushed the guilt button hard enough to transport me into another dimension. A dimension filled to capacity with chili mac.



Usually, getting me to change my mind is like trying to push a wet rope up a hill. But when a friend says that they're disappointed in me, bought stomach friendly food for me, got hockey tickets (!) for me, stresses how important it is to spend time with the people you care about, and hopelessly sighs via email? Well, this man has a shame limit. And if the shame is valid, I change my tune and rectify my wrong.

So I'm off to visit Kellie today, like I should have done yesterday. I got called out, and now I'm making it right.

And to those who would try to exploit my shame bone, now that the secret is out, you should know something. Guilt trippin' only works on me once a year, per person, and that person has to be a good friend. A person I have farted loudly in front of...see you soon, Kellie!

8 Creepy Pick Up Lines

Over the past week or so, Lee and I (with some collaborative help from Monty, Lindsey, and Rob) have been brainstorming a bunch of creepy pick up lines. Lines that convey a slippery grip on sanity, and an utter lack of human communication skills. We wanted to prove that one sentence, spoken with the awkwardness of 5 senior proms combined, can strike fear and uneasiness within the hearts of women worldwide.

Warning! If you actually say these things to a woman, you'd better know how to take a punch in the dick.

But two things first;

1) These also qualify as things you don't want to hear while walking alone in a dark alley. Boy or girl.
2) Use a gruff, axe-murdery, unsettling interior voice when reading them. Trust me. Way better payoff.

Also, whisper one of these lines to your dad, and send a picture of his reaction to me at shutyourcunt@yahoo.com. You will be rewarded with Cheez-Its.

Here's them gems...



1. "Time to look at my jammies."





2. "Do you like soft things?"





3. "In 15 minutes, we won't even be here."





4. "You smell cultural."





5. "Milky Pete wants his bologna."





6. "They found ticks in me."





7. "Hostage party!"





8. "Wanna take a ride in my giggle buggy?"






Well, I'm off to the bars, ladies.
Smell ya later.

Free Mumia with Purchase of Medium Drink

Personal rambling time, folks. Search for the hidden nuggets of wisdom!

I'm writing this at 3:19 in the afternoon, which is different for me. I don't know when I'll finish, but the bulk will be written during the daylight hours.

My blogs usually get written deep into the night, because I happen to be an insomniac and can't stop my brain from gurgling. The two overall feelings that I get in the late hours are:

a) comfort, well-being, and happiness resulting in comically imaginative thoughts.


and

b) doubt, sadness, and anger resulting in resentment of my peculiar ways.



It's one or the other, as middles don't exist in my cerebrospinal fluid encased brain stalk.



Even though I get isolated and depressed sometimes, nighttime is when I feel the most comfortable. Everything is still, a pleasant contrast to the chaos of daytime. There's always shit to be done during the day, and there seem to be thousands of positive possible outcomes in the air. Positive possibilities suck, because they never become realized. This is what's known as disappointment. The sister of failure.

During the day, people pack the streets as they run errands, hurry to their jobs, and get their fill of vitamin D. I hate the daytime. Correction, I hate daytime in the city, as I imagine that daytime in the countryside brings less commotion with it... I just plain don't like seeing people walking around, ignoring you as they go about their business. Cars are everywhere, same with the horrendously gigantic presence of buses spewing black exhaust and screeching that interrupts all thought processes. People walking their dogs, hurriedly scurrying past, scared that you might actually pet their beloved Mr. Sprinkles. It's all so disheartening and overwhelming.



I've always thought that if it were acceptable to work from 10pm till 6am, I'd be gainfully employed by now. But no respectable company has hours like that, and they're sure as hell not thinking about cutting a schlemiel some slack with regards to their business hours.

I'm at my best conversationally and creatively from 10pm until I fall asleep around 4am. The atmosphere of night plays a large part in the general unhurried and natural mood I ease into.



Nighttime is quiet. Old people are in bed or too scared to go outside. Less people are frolicking about obnoxiously. I can enjoy the city without the berserk bombardment of audio and visual warfare. I think this is why post-apocalyptic fiction and films appeal to me. I love the architecture, surroundings, and character of Chicago, but I wish all the people would vanish. Where's the rapture when you need it?



It is now 8pm. The skies have darkened. I've been writing sentences here and there in between a trip to the post office and staring out the window with some music playing. With the exception of Lee, I'm the youngest old man in Chicago. We're practically in a dead heat...

...Back into the night...

I get stressed by obligations, and there are always less obligations at night, unless you happen to be a werewolf. There's no one to call except friends. I feel uninhibited and without shame for my slacking because there is nothing that can be accomplished in the normal realm at 2 in the morning. Less pressure to be somebody, more time to contemplate and do what I want freely. It almost feels like no one is watching. As most adolescents know, all the best shit happens when there is a breach in supervision.



Maybe I need to get a grip and be more mature, but have you talked to your friends that are responsible, married, have kids, or have careers? They're unanimously miserable. I'd rather feel guilty for what I'm not than to be bitter about what I've become. I know that a livable balance can be achieved, but no one I know has this theoretical harmony implemented in any way. Maybe it takes time and patience to get the balance right. But by the time that happens, I'll have morphed into Billy Crystal.



It is now 10:20pm.

I would have been a great caveman. Minus having to hunt all the time and smelling like a Russian hockey locker room, being a caveman would be so up my alley. Fires, fighting, fucking, grunting, bone necklaces, infant mortality, and wolf riding would be so fucking cool. Besides finding shelter, there are no responsibilities and no choices to be made. Having too many choices really fucks me up. Hell, I get paralyzed looking at the cereal aisle in a grocery store.

Telling stories by the fire would be so jazz. I could tell stories about the King Coyote and Hell Hawks. Everybody would get spooked when a hawk cried out or a coyote howled, and I'd laugh while reassuring everyone that I possess forcefield amulets that protect them from the beasts I've conjured. Oh, to have no obligations, little if any clothing, and die at 30 as the clan elder. That would be a life worth living.



(Have you noticed a difference in tone between day Kid Douche and night Kid Douche?)


But until time machines become affordable and safe, I'm stuck thinking about life out in the vast countryside. House pushed way back from the road, neighbors half a mile away, and all the quiet stillness I desire.

Carlos Zambrano Throws No-No, Big Z No Hits The Astros and Makes Kid Douche Happy

True Story/ Sports Story alert!

Chillin' with some women out in Logan Square (yeah, I'm LL Cool J), when I get a text from my friend and fellow Cubs fiend, Mr. Lee Kitzis. It reads, "Tell me you saw that!". Obviously I didn't see whatever he was talking about. I gave him a ring on my way home and he was speechless, and wouldn't tell me what happened until after Mad Men at 11. Bastard. Get a DVR, you cheap Jew.

I figured something must have gone down, so I turn on the radio to hear some sport-schlock host utter the words, "Carlos Zambrano throws a no-hitter." I was flabbergasted, excited, and overcome with joy. Not profound joy, mind you, like when your child beats up another child for the first time, but genuine happiness nonetheless.


Big Z and Sweet Lou. Awesome.





(via Snarling Mess)



"I told you, Felipe! Ghosts can't play baseball!"




Eat your heart out David Blaine and Criss Angel. My man can levitate. My man also cries when he watches The Bodyguard starring Whitney Houston. Buk Buk!



Wow, Future Zambrano looks warlock-ish



And young Zambrano has eyebrow issues. It's too bad he puffed out like a popcorn kernel with age, although then he wouldn't be Big Z, would he? All I'm saying is that mayonnaise in a sports bottle might have worked for him, but I'd advise young pitchers out there against it.



"Who goes there?"



Rad



A dice game in the dug-out gets heated when Big Z catches Michael Barrett using a weighted die.





I wanted to catch the highlights and hopefully see a replay of the game sometime in the wee hours. I saw lots of Sportscenter highlights, but no such luck on the replay front. I bet I'll have to go on eBay to buy a second generation dub of the game from some schmuck who blasts Limp Bizkit in his dad's Toyota Corrolla every Thursday.

Wow, I guess the no-hitter didn't affect the rage section of my gyros (brain).

I've been a Cubs fan since I was born, and this ranks in the top 5 Cub moments of my life. My mom was always a huge Cubs fan and went to 30+ games a year in the late 60's, so I was handed down certain traits, like taking great pride in coming close, but ultimately failing. I used to come home from day camp in the summer and watch Andre Dawson, Ryne Sandberg, and Mark Grace on WGN. Afterwards, I'd take a huge shit for a kid my age. Oh, the memories. I also worked security at Wrigley Field from April to mid-May of this year, but that's another story, and not a happy one.

Lee and I share a common bond by being both Jews and Cubs fans. Two strikes, right? But that no-hitter makes being a Cubs fan worth it. And when the Cubs lose in the playoffs again next month, I'll look back on this day and smile. Through gritted teeth, I'll smile.