Do You Know What Makes Me Mad

Parking Tickets make me mad. Swearing, cursing, screaming, threating revenge on a cop I never met mad. Steam coming out my ears, flames coming out my eyes mad. Shaking my steering wheel mad.

I have actually been productive today. Multi-tasking even. After dropping off my dry cleaning I put my laundry in the machines at the local Spin Cycle and walked down to Underdogg to get an all too delicious Double Cheddar Charburger with fries.

I get back to the laundromat just in time to move my clothes into the dryer. Man is today going good. I then sit down to eat and this is where my day goes south. Two bites into my sammich I reach into the bag to find a napkin (there are none) and manage to knock over my bottle of Diet Pepsi. Onto my burger. I now have a wet sammich and a puddle of pop in the middle of the table with no napkins. I go over to the public sink and grab pulling paper towel out of the dispenser, dry my hands and reach back for more to discover that I have used up the last of the last of the paper towels. Luckily, there were five small napkins next to the free coffee. Which were just enough to leave the table slightly wet but puddle free. I finish my slightly wetter sammich and check my dryers. I have 28 minutes minutes left. I decide to go to the bank to get cash because by the time I finish laundry they will be closed and because of bizarre circumstances I don't have time to explain here, my ATM card has been in the hands of a Greek woman whose name I can barely pronounce. So it is go to the bank or stay home tonight. Guess my choice. I don't plan to stay out late but one of the few good things that has happened to today is that Foti is going to be at Estelle's here in the hood. So off to the bank I go. Now you city dwellers know, we don't have the benefit of parking lots everywhere we go like the cushy burbs do. Or legal parking for that matter. As I pulled into the bus stop that is the only available place to put my car I switch on my hazards, and run into the bank. Luckily, no line. I write a check get my money and am out of the bank in less than four minutes flat. I jump in my car, turn the ignition, turn off the hazards and let the screaming begin. There is a parking ticket on my windshield. Four minutes. Bastard couldn't give me four minutes. Just writing about it is pissing me off again. Bastards. Give a kid a break. $90 ticket. Now I took out a lot of money because I am going to a wedding tomorrow and am putting $200 in the card, so I only got fined 20% for taking money out of the bank. If I would have withdrawn only $100 I would be really pissed.

My laundry is finished and I am home venting into the internet, but before I came to Blogspot to worship I went directly to the City of Chicago website to by my damn ticket, but it won't let me pay it because it is not in the system yet. Which sucks because by the time the damn cop files the ticket and the city puts it into the system and the IT flunky connects the info with the internet I will have forgotten all about the damn ticket and they will send me those oh so annoying notices in the mail.

Bastards.

Happy Thanksgiving

I am thankful....


that I am finally off work for a couple of days

that I will be able to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family on sunday

that I will be a friend's wedding in 2 days having a great time

for mini-skirts

that my daughter is pretty, smart, and so far is a good kid

that my dad has made it through two surgeries this year. One of them emergent.

for pumpkin pie

that I have become good friends with the Matador. Every one needs a friend who has the exact same sense of humor

for Abo-rama whose smile always makes me do the same

for backless gowns

for every ice cold glass of Southern Comfort and Coke that I have consumed this year

for bartenders who get up early in the morning just so I can have a drink at seven a.m.

that how I met you mother is still on the air

that everyday I go to work I meet at least one intelligent person who helps stave off my fading hope in the rest of society

that I am 6'2"

that I haven't gone blind

that I haven't been arrested yet for tax evasion

that I may have a part-time job that will distract me from that fact that I hate my full-time job

that same part-time job will help me buy a condo

that there are still nice people in the world

that I still have the chance to become one of them again

that farts are still funny

that tony pierce still blogs, and still makes my smile

that tony's blog inspired me to make this list

that you aren't too pissed off that this is so damn long

for women with long legs

that everyday is another chance to take over the world

An Idea

Not necessarily a good one but an idea none-the-less.

A few years ago a friend of mine told me about a dive bar pub crawl he was going on. Ever since I have been considering setting up something similar my self. But today's idea is a neighborhood pub crawl. With actual neighborhood bars. For those of you not in the know there is a big difference between a neighborhood bar and a bar in your neighborhood. If you live in lincoln Park there are hundred's of bars in your neighbor hood but very few if any neighborhood bars.

The criteria for inclusion in the crawl are as follows:
(List is currently incomplete and suggestions are welcome)

1. Within walking distance from the house. For purpose of the crawl 1.5 miles is the current cutoff. We can cab to the furthest point and make our way back bar by bar.

2. Mixed drinks must be less than $5. I am considering lowering that to $4, but this may eliminate some cool places.

3. Must not be on a major street. Exceptions may be applied for.

4. Juke box

5. Bar in current incarnation should be at least 20 years old. May consider lowering this to 10.



I think that is a good start. If you can think of any other requirements for a neighborhood bar let me know.

Driving by this place inspired my idea.

Jesus Christ, Post Already

Between working like a slave, being a father and having no energy to do anything I have forgotten, ok I'll be honest intentionally ignored, this blog.

Tonight I went an saw the play Metamorphoses put on by Riverside Brookfield High School students. Monkey and I both liked it but apparently for different reasons and like the exact opposite scenes.

I bought a coat today. Sorry Matador, no more staring at my hard nipples. It's black, it's Cole Haan and no one cares. But me. I like it. The philarican went shopping with me. She is still in love with me. I need to stop hanging out with her or just point blank tell her that it is never going to happen or both. It is a shame because I consider her a good friend.

I work again on Monday. I really need to find a job that I don't hate so much that I start counting the hours I have left till the end of my shift 36 hours before it starts.

Got a phone call last week from a crazy Iraqi doctor who wants to hire me. He is a bit shady but will probably pay well and he owns one of the coolest restaurant/clubs in the city. And his office is around the corner, not 55 fucking road construction infested miles away. Imagine walking to work. Wow.

For those of you not aware of the fact, drinking at 7am after working a night shift is never a good idea. Ever. I somehow tend to forget this a 5am when I agree to this stupidity.

For the benefit of myself and my crackface co-workers who disbelieve that going drinking at 7am is equivalent to sticking your face in a meat grinder I will list the reasons you should not try this at home.

1. At 7am you are ALWAYS drinking on an empty stomach. And eating 1/3 of an 8 inch frozen pizza is not adequate nutrition or volume to keep you from getting drunk off your ass.

2. The bartender is always bored at this time of morning, therefore being in need of entertainment other than Walker Texas Ranger at full volume and being to smart to drink herself/himself, will begin to pour really strong drinks.

3. There is never anyone cute or interesting in a bar at 7am. or 8am. 9am etc. Pay attention, this includes you.


4. Sunlight. Even if you are in a bar with actually normal windows and you are slowly subjected and introduced to the retina burning beast that is the sun walking out into it's full glory at 11am or 3pm as the case may be is going to suck all kinds of ass. If you are stupid enough to crawl into a dimly lit barely exposed to sunlight bar at 7am you are going to be introduced to one of only 2 glimpses of hell you can experience here on earth. The other being the DMV.

5. You've ruined your day. Unfortunately my friends and I belong to the section of society that when asking "Do you want to go for a drink?" means let's go see how much we can consume. Therefore, a 7am drink rarely ends before 11am and not infrequently before 1pm, and occasionally lasts until 3 or later. Which means your day is fucked and you will not even remotely come close to accomplishing anything on your to do list. And god forbid you HAVE TO FUCKING WORK that day you sure as hell know your productivity is going to resemble that of a three-toed sloth. That is of course if you don't call the fuck off and make everyone else's life miserable.

6. Nothing good happens after 2am. Go Home.

Too good to be true

I ran into an article on MSNBC.com this morning on Wedgie Proof undies. I clicked the link and this is the important part of the article.

Using rigged boxers and fabric fasteners to hold together some seams, Jared and Justin Serovich came up with the "Rip Away 1000," a pair of underwear that cannot be jerked up to give its wearer a painful "wedgie."

"When the person tries to grab you — like the bully or the person tries to give you a wedgie — they just rip away," Justin explained Thursday by phone from Los Angeles, where the TV segment was taped Wednesday.

Now correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't the only thing worse than someone giving you a wedgie is someone STEALING YOUR FUCKING UNDERWEAR!

If someone gives you a wedgie, it hurts and the people around you laugh. If someone steals your underwear and runs them up the school flagpole, you will be laughed at until you graduate or leave town and they might even keep laughing after that. At your 20 year high school reunion someone will bring up the fact that in fourth grade your underwear ended up on the flagpole or on Mrs. Kozinski's Desk. Or in some girl 's lunch bag.

And lest we forget, 8 year-old boys tend to wear there underwear until mom threatens to cut them off or send you to school without pants. So if these brilliant eight year old inventors want their Skid Mark underwear tossed around the school so be it, just so long as they realize that the first time that happens their business will go belly up.

Now to get the image of bacon stripped tighty whiteys out of your mind here something more pleasant in the world of underwear.