Will you be mine, TSA agent?

I am sitting in the office today with nothing to do at the moment. Fact is I have quite a bit to do but the government’s computer network is down. I’ve come to notice that it is down almost all the time. Somehow we could send a man to the moon on a computer system you would find in a modern day blender but we can’t exchange basic information anymore. I can’t complain too much because I have been meaning to write something for this train wreck I call a blog. So thank you to the Illinois Department of Health and Human Services for being almost as incompetent as I am. 

Thanksgiving has come and gone and as always our ritualistic slaughter of turkey has left us with bulging belt lines, indigestion, and shame. When you visit three houses on Thanksgiving like I did that’s more than one dinner, dessert, and drink. And that’s a whole lotta shame. However, it could have been much worse. I could have been traveling through an airport this holiday season. Travelers had a wonderful choice between a grope session that didn’t even culminate with a happy ending or a virtual strip search. 

That's a nice belt buckle.

I myself am glad that the government has finally found a good use for perverts and pedophiles. How is it okay to strip search a thirteen year old girl in this fashion? Or a thirteen year old boy for that matter? For some reason in an airport we're all guilty until proven innocent.

 

This job must attract a certain type of individual. For example, someone similar to this guy:

Don't fuck with Jesus

The only solace I get from this terrible debacle is that for every hot girl or hot guy a TSA agent gets to see virtually stripped down, they have to endure the strip search of a 500 pound man with a fungus that emits an odor so disgraceful your throat convulses. You might enjoy those twenty seconds looking at the hot girl, but you will never forget the smell wafting out the rolls of that disgusting man. 

My personal view on this issue is that you must get to know your TSA agent a little. Before you can go through a body scanner and let them see you naked you have to make them work for it. A firm grope of your testicles or breasts goes a long way to build trust. Since your checking to see if I can hide explosives around my taint I want you to be sure and really give my schlong a good pull. And even though you would think someone walking through the airport with a cantaloupe sized bulge in his pants would be targeted first, you can check out my little bulge. I know you’re just curious. 

Be prepared for maximum fondling

Moreover we, as citizens, have the opportunity to make this whole process much nicer for the TSA agents. Like I said before, their nightmares will surely include the cankles, elephant odors, chili-breath, involuntary flatulence, and heavy breathing of the growing portion of Americans who have to pay for two plane seats. So what can we do to make this a better experience for the TSA? I made a list of things now okay to bring to the airport. 

·         Bikinis/Speedos: Wearing your swim suit helps the TSA in two ways. First, they still get to check out your goods but don’t have to x-ray you to do so. This also makes the pat-down process much easier because you have so little to hide.

·         Wine: In any foreplay situation, wine is a good way to warm up both parties. Remember to have it poured for your agent when you get to the front of the line to save time. You can then sniff and savor the wine before getting felt up. It's just like at home!

·         Something ribbed for her pleasure.

·         Oh yeah we must not forget the lube because every time we have to go through this bullshit we’re taking it up the ass. And you don’t want to do that without lube.

The Threat Down

The last two days have been particularly gloomy here in the wonderful city of Chicago. Cloudy mornings and afternoons obscure the sun’s warmth at a time when we need it most. Persistent cold is sneaking up on us and there is no denying that the seasons are changing. As the sun progressively sets earlier the motivation for many to be outside diminishes. This is the classic Midwestern hibernation stage of the year in which we fatten up and become very pale. For some reason when we emerge in the spring, we don’t think of moving away. We may all be truly insane. 

A recent conversation at work sparked two separate emotions in me: happiness and utter fear. Okay - first the happiness. My boss came into my office to ask me if I was pursuing other jobs in the near future. Being a temp worker, this is exciting because it looks like there is a good chance I’ll be hired on soon. As the smell of my boss’ french fries wafted through the air came the impending fear that I will experience for the rest of my life. It started ever so innocently. 

My co-worker, who was also enjoying the smell of those fries, was explaining how she just wanted to go home and get into her bed and watch movies. I can’t blame her. It’s gloomy out there. The two women then started talking about Lifetime and Oxygen. 

Now a Public Service Announcement for all of my female readers. Here’s an insight into the male mind. When Lifetime or Oxygen comes up in conversation, the auditory regions of the brain shut down. Have you ever noticed you kind of have to nudge a man after you’ve been talking about a Lifetime original? That’s because he’s making his lineup for his fantasy football team, picturing lesbians in a pillow fight, or imagining how many rams he could lasso in twenty minutes.

Scientists have concluded that on average the male brain is twelve times more powerful than the female counterpart.

 

Now because of this biological adaptation the male does not know much about Lifetime and Oxygen other than to avoid them while channel surfing. We are also collectively aware of what the basic program on Lifetime entails:

• Woman is abused by her husband. She feeds him bacon everyday and waits for the heart attack.
• Woman is abused by her drunken husband. Tears ensue.
• Teenage girl is molested by a clown. She must overcome her fear of men and clowns.
• Men are evil. Men are evil. Men are evil.

These shows are downers and I don’t get why anyone would want to watch them. Now obviously this is a male perspective because the channel is quite popular amongst the ladies. However I learned more about Oxygen today. Men, we may be in trouble. For my male readers let me explain the show ‘Snapped’. Apparently this show documents the lives of women who have ‘snapped’ and killed their husbands and boyfriends. They interview the ladies in prison and talk to their family and friends. It’s a reality show that apparently is a big hit with women. The ladies in my office seem to find it ‘entertaining’ and ‘hard not to get into’. 

This is Lauren Zalaznick COO/CEO of Oxygen. I bet a few men have woke up to see her standing over them with a butcher knife.

Such a big hit it is that on Sundays while the gentlemen are in the basement watching football and ignoring wives and girlfriends, Oxygen has marathons of the show that basically demonstrates how not to get caught killing your man. It’s delicately dancing the line between a how-to educational experience and entertainment. Don’t put Drano in his soup because the cops will definitely find out. Good to know. I’m storing that in the back of my head until the next time he checks out Joan next door. It is dangerous to watch marathons about killing your boyfriend or husband. It gets you thinking. Guys do stupid stuff that annoys the ladies. For example:

• Dutch ovens
•  Leaving the toilet seat up at night so the lady gets her butt wet
• Curiosity about the back door
• The phrase ‘What’s for dinner, toots?’
• Refusing to go to the ballet because you’re so close to training the dog to say ‘Ay Ay Captain!’
• Going bald and refusing to admit it thus making your wife deal with the terrible comb-over.
• Get a prescription for Viagra. That’s a commitment many ladies may prefer to pass on. 

I have a message to the Oxygen network. Let’s tone it down. While this show may be entertaining for women, are marathons really necessary? It may just push a woman over the edge. Do you see men watching pornography marathons? No. I think that would make women just as nervous and disgusted as ‘Snapped’ makes me feel. 

For all you women out there I have a message as well. Think about this a little bit. If you kill your man, who will be your pipe-fitter? Wrestle bears away in the snow? Who will bring back raccoon pelts to warm you during the winter? Who will fish your dumb kid’s dead hamster out of the sum-pump? Exactly! A man will and he’ll do it with a smile and make the world feel good. There are also many other useful things a man can do. For more information, inquire with your local man. 

Artist's rendition of your local area man.

Men, I also have a message for us. Be vigilant for two reasons my brothers. First reason being that it is now evident that the female media is clearly brainwashing women to become man-hating lesbians hell-bent on the destruction of men. A mouthful indeed, but very dangerous. And no, these lesbians are not cool. Secondly, we have to look within. The women are converting men to join their fight against us. There are traitors at every corner. The two signs of a traitor are a man’s lack of testicles and his ability to watch Lifetime and Oxygen. They go hand in hand. If you know of a man that watches or supports Lifetime or Oxygen, please take an appropriate course to neutralize him. It’s our duty. Here is the biggest traitor of them all:

President of Oxygen Jason Klarman. He is the epitome of traitor and should be considered public enemy #1. His lack of testicles and high pitched voice should make him easy to locate.

A Case of the Mondays

I think I have a case of the Mondays. While I absolutely hate that expression, it is fitting today. I’m tired, bored, and there is currently a condescending bitch standing in front of me. She is treating my co-worker like a child. I really don’t like this lady. It’s taking all of my strength not to stand up, fill her mouth with formaldehyde, and send her to the Smithsonian with a caption reading ‘World’s Largest Cunt’. 

As I sit here with nothing to do but listen to these ladies go back and forth I thought of a few places/scenarios that I would rather be in than a Monday workday.

A Closet Full of Testy Monkeys

I’ve always admired Jane Goodall’s work on the social structure of monkey life. While I could not commit to living in the jungle with them for years, I would be willing to study what would happen if you locked thirteen unusually angry monkeys in a closet with me, an eager scientist.

My hypothesis: I would connect with the monkeys on a deeper level. The monkeys would gain respect for me as their intellectual superior and bow to my leadership. With the monkeys on my side, I would establish a pickpockting scheme in Las Vegas. The monkeys get bananas and top shelf whiskey, I get gambling money and strippers.  

My associates are never late with the cash.

Totally better than a Monday workday.

 Tom Cruise’s Basement

Unless you’re a scientologist, you are aware that Tom Cruise is one of the most delusional people to ever walk this Earth. I wouldn’t be surprised if he saw himself as some sort of prophet. He thinks he is right about everything.  

Now mix in the fact that Mr. Cruise is extremely dim-witted. He is a practitioner of Scientology, I remind you. Among many other ridiculous things, this man actually believes that evil alien spirits are the cause of suffering in this world and his special instruments and saunas have the ability to cleanse the soul of the evil aliens. That’s not even smart by religion’s standards. 

If you’ve ever noticed in television interviews he gets really angry when he’s proven wrong. That’s part of his delusion. That’s also partly because most of the people that surround Cruise are scared to disagree with him. Those who have disagreed end up in his basement complex where they are forced to repeatedly listen to audio recordings of Dianetics followed by screenings of Battlefield Earth until their will is broken down. In a last tortuous swoop, prisoners of Tom Cruise’s basement are made to watch Knight and Day. This is the tragic end for the hundreds of people who disagree with Cruise each year. 

Cruise in his confused/angry stage. This precedes an explosion of anger in which you end up chained to the wall in his basement.

Still better than a Monday workday.   

The Elephant House

Elephants are the largest of the land creatures we find here on earth. In the wild they roam miles and miles through territorial and migratory lands. So what gave us the idea that it was alright to put them in a building for a good portion of the year? And when we did, why didn’t zoologists veto this absurd idea? This argument can be made for most wild animals, I know. 

If I were you I'd spray water at pregnant mothers with your trunk. Otherwise their babies will come back in a couple years and throw little hot wax elephants at you.

But have you seen the amount of feces an elephant makes? Yeah, let’s not keep that inside. Generally speaking I refuse to go in Pachyderm houses at the zoo because the smell is overwhelming. I’m not one of those prissy city people by any means. I enjoy nature and all of its odoriferous qualities. But concentrated animal shit is not something I willingly put up with the see a three ton animal stuffed into a ‘habitat’ the size of my apartment junior year of college.

Stay free, animal brother. And maybe deuce in that little car so they know what it's like to be in a small area with a large amount of feces.

But in this case, I’d rather smell fecal matter for eight hours than come to work.  

Church

I was born and raised Roman Catholic. I went to Catholic schools literally my entire life. This entailed Catholic grammar school, high school, and almost seven years and two degrees at the college level. This institution has been trying to indoctrinate me for over twenty years and can’t get me to show up for Sunday mass. It’s not that I don’t believe in God, it’s just that I don’t believe in illogical bedtime stories. 

I wish Jesus had raves at my Church on Sundays. I'd even consider not watching football.

Every time I am in Church I feel like I’m part of a cult. Stand up, sit down, stand up, kneel, talk in unison, stand up, don’t worry eat this, drink the red stuff, talk in unison, shake hands, kneel, sing like you’re part of a zombie chorus, sit down, talk in unison. See you next week. Luckily up until now the wine hasn't been poisoned with arsenic or something of the like.

Taking everything into consideration, I’d rather take that chance and eat a little Jesus wafer instead of going to work Monday morning.

European Travels: The Sun Never Sets on the British Empire

I was sitting on my couch the other day with my Dad watching Arsenal play a match against Shakhtar Donetsk. My dad explained to me that this soccer stuff was basically ‘slow hockey’ and promptly fell asleep, from boredom one can only assume. Good match it ended up being, with Arsenal winning handily.

This made me think about my travels through Europe and some of the interesting cultural differences I’ve come across. More specifically, stereotypes I’ve encountered or shattered. I’ve been to Europe four times now and I’d like to tell you a story. 

When I travel I’m always looking for that true European experience whether it’s in England, France or wherever else. It’s not as easy as you would think. Undoubtedly it’s fun to see the historical and cultural sights but there’s nothing like coming back with some stories about locals you chummed it up with. Fortunately for my most recent trip o’er the pond, my friend Phil and I were able to find one of these experiences. 

England

Isolated on an island, the English are unaware of modern day guns.

Oh England, the English speaking paradise of Europe. This former patriarch of the land I call home is domicile to bad teeth, homely women, bad food, and soccer hooligans. At least that’s what popular belief here in the USA says. Well I am here to set the record straight. The teeth are really bad. 

I really enjoyed England. It’s like America except everyone talks funny and the streets are backwards. So when you’re drunk at four in the morning it’s very easy to get yourself killed stepping out into traffic. Speaking of getting drunk (which I have been known to enjoy), London had the most rules I’ve ever seen about getting drunk. Mind you this is in the area known as Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square. It’s a trendier/touristy area in the heart of London that reminded me a lot of being in New York City around Times Square. 

So the rules

If you want to get drunk and watch a soccer game (like we did one night) you must go to the sports bars. It seems no other bar in the heart of downtown shows the matches. Walk into a pub, no game. Walk into a sports bar, games everywhere. The problem lies in the fact that the lines to get into sports bars go half way around the block. By the time you’ve entered the bar, the game is at half. What’s the point?

Now if you want to get good old fashioned saucy for no reason the pub is a good choice. You would think that as I did, but once again London drinking rules are in effect. The pubs, though a good source of beer, close rather early: midnight or one in the morning depending on the night of the week. In one of these pubs we met the most attractive ladies we did in England. We started talking and it turns out they were from America. No surprise there, like I said before England is full of homely women. Also no surprise that they were ‘heading home’ at bar close and didn’t want to come out for some more drinks. They told us that if we wanted to keep drinking until the wee hours of the morning, the night clubs were the way to go.

If you’ve ever seen a picture of me, you would know that I don’t do night clubs. I have nightmares about nightclubs. Smooth-chested men in leather pants with gelled hair attack me in those dreams. Bass heavy techno sampling songs from dead artists I actually like make my ears bleed in those dreams. Women who want nothing more than free drinks and ecstasy from me make me broke in those dreams. I wasn’t about to make any of those terrible things reality. 

The loophole we found was the 24 hour casinos. A little bit of sanity in an insane part of the city. As long as we kept gambling, we could drink all night long. And for all that drunk gambling I did, I actually made money. So the moral of the story kids is drunk gambling will never lead to bad consequences. In fact we came across another group of attractive ladies while at the casino: they were Irish. 

Hooligans & Their Food

Okay so now that we have established that there are far too many homely women in London, let’s move on to my other preconceived notions: soccer hooligans and bad food. The food wasn’t bad. It was like the dinners your grandma made after she started to lose it. But you can’t complain to your grandmother for serving you tacos and green bean casserole because you know she loves you. It wasn’t bad, it just seemed the combinations were uninspired. The ‘Full English Breakfast’ consisted of eggs, a sausage, a tomato, a mushroom, and toast. They all tasted decent, but when you look at the plate you think ‘This is what you came up with?’  All I can say is that the food was good enough to give me a solid base for drinking. And as you will soon learn, that was important one night. The main reason my friend and I went to England was to see an Arsenal game, not the food. 

We made our way to North London for the match against Wolverhampton. Drank a few pints before the match in pubs packed like sardine tins. We then headed down the street to the Emirates. The neighborhood was really cool and reminded me somewhat of Wrigleyville in Chicago. It was a neighborhood consisting of flats and two-flats as far as the eye could see. Small, locally owned shops, pubs, and restaurants lined the main thoroughfares. It had that olden feeling, even for London. But then, out of nowhere rises the intimidating modern steel of the Emirates. 

Beautiful.

That's Phil, in all his glory

Packed house for the match.

The game was great. No score through 90 minutes despite the Gunners’ constant peppering of the Wolves’ goalie. Stoppage time came and in the 94^th minute Niklas Bendtner streaked into the box and headed a cross pass into the goal for the dramatic win. The Emirates erupted in relief as Arsenal put away a game that should not have been so close.  

   

Just to clarify a bit here: Arsenal FC players are called Gunners and their fans are called Gooners. I don’t understand the Gooners thing, so don’t ask. High on life my friend Phil and I made our way to a pub named Bailey’s Gooners. Obviously this bar was for Gooners exclusively. However if the name wasn’t clear enough, there was a sign placed in the window stating ‘No visiting fans welcome’. The bar was small, completely covered in wood and very dark.  It was daylight when we entered the bar and probably about two in the morning when we left. 

Gunner Niklas Bendtner

We chatted with a few groups of fans and as the time wore on and pints turned into more pints neither of us wanted to leave. Slowly the bar started to become less populated. There was one group of guys who remained. They were serious fans. They lead the bar in soccer chants the entire night. Unparalleled is the sense of unity in sport when an entire pub erupts into song together. You just don’t see this very much in American sports. At the end of a good Bears game this is what you’re bound to hear walking back to your car:

 Fuck yeah those fuckin’ Colts really fuckin’ sucked. And you see Cutler? Fuckin’ amazing tonight. 

HEY FUCK YOU JACKWAD, PACKERS SUCK!

Anyway we talked quite a bit with this group of guys. There were four of them that I remember. The first was really tall, probably about six foot five or so with a five o’clock shadow from yesterday. The second was a kid so bland I can’t really come up with a description for him. I do remember he really liked cocaine because he kept talking about it. In fact, all of them were talking about cocaine quite a bit. The third was a short, humorous, black guy dressed in purple. Last guy seemed to be a prick, honestly. He was very serious and despite the fact that the other three guys liked us, I’m not so sure he did. The night wore on with this crack group of guys discussing sports, America, and England. 

Sometime late, we all moved on to new bars. All I really remember from this part of the night was walking through the streets, singing soccer songs, and watching these guys knock over trash cans, construction signs, and basically anything not chained to the ground. Stop in a bar have a couple drinks, move on to the next. We got a good tour of North London. It was during this march that we found out these guys, although they did cocaine and were drinking at the bars without a problem, were 17, 18, and 19 years old. Maybe it was the beers that shaded our perception or maybe it was the fact that they wanted to keep drinking, but it never crossed either of our minds. Somewhere in the range three in the morning (mind you the spirits began somewhere around 1pm), Phil and I decided to head back to the hotel. We had a seven a.m. train to Amsterdam to catch. Somehow we made it back to the hotel and to the train on-time. In hindsight, a miracle.

That train ride to Amsterdam was probably God’s way of telling us that we were assholes. It was long and boy were we hurting really bad. But it was totally worth it. Nothing beats hanging out with the locals when abroad, even if they were five years younger than us. If you want to party, I'm game. That may just say something about my maturity level. However when all was said and done, it was truly an experience that will be hard to top. 

The McRib: A National Travesty

Oh crap! I just jizzed in my pants. 

It’s that time of year again. For the past couple weeks the McRib has been causing indigestion, diarrhea and fits of vomiting all across the country. While this is no different from the digestive results of the regular McDonald’s menu, there is an exception. That being that people are actually excited to eat at McDonald’s now, instead of being sad like before.

A local McRib lover and I were having a conversation about the sandwich one day as he prepared to enjoy the meaty wonder. He told me that I just had to try it because it was indescribable. He also guaranteed that I would love it and told me to buy two.

Fast food is obviously gross. There is nothing really good about it. But when it comes to a hangover, nothing quite soaks up that queasy feeling like a cheeseburger from McDonald’s. Every now and then, some food from your favorite greasy restaurant hits the spot. There’s nothing wrong with it because it does serve a purpose. Just please don’t eat it every day. And if you do eat it every day, please don’t go out in public.

Watch those fingers, you don't want to lose one. 

McDonald’s is also a great way to help your body perform at peak efficiency. Why do you think Olympic competitors eat there?

So we’ve established that McDonald’s serve some use in the world. However, the McRib in no way can be justified by humanity. I tried one for the first time the other week because after 24 years on this earth, curiosity got to me one hungover morning. Before throwing the McRib away, I took a total of four bites. On the first bite I was taken aback by the fact that the BBQ sauce was just terrible and watery. Second bite is when I realized that despite being advertised as a flesh-based product, this meat tasted like nothing. It was unbelievably bland.

This immediately made me think that if this doesn’t even have enough pork in it to taste like pork, then what in the hell is actually in this? So intrigued by this disgusting pork sandwich, I took a couple more bites to try and pinpoint the foul tastes I was experiencing. Besides the taste of raccoon, bovine growth hormone, and third-world children (which is a normal taste in all McDonald’s items), it was hard to pinpoint what was so inexpressibly disgusting. Honestly it might be the texture. Pork wasn’t meant to be ground up and pressed together into patties. That works with chicken and beef but not with pork.

A plain McRib patty. It's like waking up next to a girl without makeup. Really makes you think.

Apparently the bones are only on the top of the McRib.

So I guess I don’t understand what the whole ruckus has been about with this McRib. As far as McDonald’s items go, in my opinion it is by far the most heinous offering. But I will not judge you McRib lovers. When you go to get your McRib I will get my double cheeseburger. We’ll both be gross together. Well, you’ll be slightly more disgusting. But I’ll let it go. 

A Mystery: Can You Help?

One interesting aspect of the modern world is the high probability that you are going to see something that shocks your world view every now and again. This doesn’t mean that Muhammad appears in the sky and tells us all Jesus was a dick and to stop praying to him. Although an occurrence like this would shake world views and also be pretty awesome. I hope deities cuss like sailors; it will make the after-life more interesting.

What I’m speaking about more specifically is something a person experiences that confuses and/or scares them to an extreme level. Something that, for a moment or two, you are doing nothing else but trying to figure out what in the hell is going on. 

 

Scene 1: Milwaukee, Wisconsin – Sometime During College

One night two friends of mine were out at the bar. It was a cold, clear skied, fall night in Milwaukee. We decided to leave and walked back a few blocks to an apartment to hang out away from the craziness that was the campus bar scene. All three of us were looking for a quieter night.

The apartment was on the second floor of a large U-shaped complex. It was typical dirty college housing. However you don’t really ever realize how dirty college housing is until you leave and see how normal people live. Anyway, we made our way to the balcony to smoke a couple cigarettes. It overlooked a busy intersection and a row of houses that were rented by students. Directly across from us, the house was having a party. Kids stumbled around yelling, drinking, smoking and generally having a drunken good time.

Now that’s when it happened. It started out slowly and got louder. Then louder. At first it sounded like a large train riding on its brakes. My two friends and I looked at each other quizzically. 

Louder. 

It was a slow sound. Again I thought it sounded like a train but no – it couldn’t be. If it was a train it was like no train I had ever heard before. And come to think of it, there were no train tracks anywhere near us. 

Louder. Louder. 

The sound got so loud the party across the street stopped. People looked around. Confused looks appeared on everyone’s faces. 

Louder. Now it is fucking loud. 

And it’s not a train. I know that, but it sounds like one huge, screeching, angry machine. I briefly had imagined something out of War of the Worlds coming down 17^th Street.

Not sure if I'd rather come face to face with this thing or Tom Cruise on a righteousness binge. 

The sound hit its peak as everyone in the area was starting to freak out. That’s when an old man in his car finally makes it through the intersection. This genius decided to ride around on all four rims. Not flat tires, people. He did not have any tires on. Just riding around on metal. Genius. The sound was immense. The car was moving at less than a mile per hour. We all pointed and laughed once we saw the random explanation to our noise. 

It was a good chuckle but also a huge relief. The entire event lasted about ten minutes or so but there is nothing quite like that feeling of complete ignorance of what is going on around you. It can truly be scary.  So props, crazy old man. You single-handedly caused the abrupt and total confusion of so many people in the city that night.

Scene 2: Chicago, Illinois – The Dan Ryan Expressway – Thursday  

Yesterday the work day kicked me in the balls. After it had a good laugh, it punched me in the throat and walked away. So naturally I was happy to leave the office and make my way home.  Since I don’t work in the greatest neighborhood, I had to drive through the minefield of potholes that is Garfield Boulevard to the Dan Ryan Expressway. It’s such a routine that I’m pretty sure I can do this with my eyes closed.

Anyway the Ryan is pretty packed as usual. I put on some good music and relax. I’ve never understood why people get so angry about traffic. Yeah I’d prefer not to be in traffic. But I always see it as an opportunity to listen to an album I haven’t heard in a while. I’ll get home. No big deal.

Either way, as the southern crawl progressed I noticed something that confused the fuck out of me. Coming down the break-down lane was an asshole in a taxi. But it was not your average asshole taxi driver. This yellow cabbie was covered in snow and ice. Completely covered. Mind you its about fifty degrees. As it zoomed by me it started to weave in and out of traffic. This guy was in a bigger hurry than Britney Spears was to achieving old fat mom status. Wasn't it just yesterday she was young, sexy, and untalented? Now she's just old, knocked-up, and untalented. Such a shame. 

I looked around to other cars on the expressway and of course the other people are zombies. Here’s what’s going through most of these people’s minds, something in the ballpark of:

I hope Dog the Bounty Hunter is on when I get home tonight. 

Consequently, no one is noticing this car covered in snow as I point and yell to people about it. Suddenly, I’m the crazy guy.

Hopefully I don't look this crazy.
(source:fantasticallyweirdshit)

As quickly as the taxi appeared in all its majesty, it disappeared into traffic ahead. So this is another one of those instances where I have no clue what to think. For the life of me, I can't come up with any explanation that makes much sense. I feel like there is a bug eating my brain from the inside out. This is killing me. After much thought, I’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities. Mind you, these are the most logical things I can think of. Seriously. 

First, this car could have been in a freezer somewhere. It was driving very erratically, so it’s possible it was a car holding a dead body. Maybe the Mafia had something to do with it? The Yakuza? It was heading towards Indiana and we do all know that’s where you send your junk. Maybe they needed to wait a couple of days before transporting the body so they put it in a freezer to keep the stench down.

Second, this chemically enhanced brain of mine could have been having some sort of flashback. It is completely possible it was a total hallucination. I was very tired, which works in favor of this theory. However, hallucinating a taxi weaving in and out of traffic seems like less of a flashback and more of someone at work putting some microdot in my water. And judging by the fact that I made it home without crashing into all those penguins on the side of the road, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t on LSD.

The third and final theory is that this was a time traveler. All the evidence adds up. First, the car was driving like a maniac. If I had just come through a time portal I feel like I would be a little disorientated. Second, it was covered in ice. Traveling through a portal has to be either really hot or really cold. It’s definitely not a comfy seventy-five degrees.

It’s been a few days and I’m still very confused. Help me solve the mystery. There may be something I’ve overlooked. What do you think? Leave a comment if you want to help. 

The Creature

For those of you who may be unaware, the Southside of Chicago is a peculiar place. There is a vibrant Irish stronghold that livens up the neighborhoods. Overall, the area consists of blue-collared, hardworking, Catholic Americans. If you drove around you would come across numerous Catholic grammar schools, about one every two square miles. St. Germaine, Saint Louis, Saint Bede, Most Holy Redeemer, Saint Linus, Saint Al’s, Christ the King, Saint Barnabas, Saint Christina are all within an eight minute drive of each other. I could name more but I don’t want to put any non-religious types off by brandishing my knowledge of Saints. And while you would think that this was too many, it’s not. The schools are all filled with students eager to learn how Jesus is shaking his head in disapproval and contemplating sending you to hell when you think about sex or God forbid touch yourself. 

The Southside Irish Parade marks the beginning of the New Year. Southsiders do not use the Gregorian Calendar.

One thing about Catholics is that they are aficionados of the drink. On the Southside, we’re not talking Merlot, wine coolers, Smirnoff Ice, Mike’s Hard Lemonade or other drinks that would cause someone to question your sexuality. We’re talking whiskey, beer, and vodka. Around these parts, the drink is less of a beverage option and more of a hobby. For some, it’s a way of life.     

So naturally one night last week I found myself and some friends contemplating the bar. It was a night like no other. Some would call it the perfect storm. As I would find out, it was more appropriately called sensory overload. On this particular night the Blackhawks were on television, the Bulls had their first game of the season, and the World Series was starting. Wanting to go somewhere where we could watch all of these wonderful contests of testosterone in relative peace, we chose a small bar near our homes that wouldn’t be playing Taylor Swift over the games. We’ll get back to this night later, but first we need to Tarantino this story. 

The Perfect Storm was also a Blockbuster thriller about eating Taco Bell & McDonald's in the same day. In this scene, two fishermen empty their bowels.

Murphy’s Law is the bar’s name and on a weekday I can only describe it as sadness mixed with regret and failed dreams. Now I can make such a daring statement because a friend of mine worked there for about a year. To keep her company some friends and I would visit her. During this time I came to know Murphy’s Law quite well, as well as its cast of characters.

The Patriot

A casual discussion about how amazing the Blackhawks logo is during a game last season turned into a McCarthy era witch-hunt one night when I was introduced to this wonderful patriot. A short, fat old man was he, who every time I saw him was wearing the same Green Bay Packers sweatshirt. Either there was a box of them that fell off a truck onto his lawn or he only owns one sweatshirt.  Someone had brought up the issue of teams being forced to change Indian logos for political correctness and this man was horrified. Truly horrified and confused. I was horrified because he had never heard of this. Apparently he hasn’t watched the news in the last decade or so. In hindsight this is not surprising, he is a patriot. What is the news good for when you already know the answers? Jesus, America, kill terrorists/communists/Nazis. Prosper while living the American dream. Simple.

Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! Jesus versus Osama Bin Laden in the CAGE OF DEATH!

During the course of the conversation I tried to be empathetic for the sake of carrying on talk. I had explained that although I don’t agree with the logos being changed, I can understand their point of view. We did kill all of their people, their marvelous buffalos, and then took all of their land. Even though we have forgotten, they might not have. This is when the patriot stared me down. A long and deep stare that burned my pupils and nearly caused me to fall off the stool. This was a stare I imagined coming from a drunken grandfather waiting for just the right moment to whack you across the head. After what seemed like ages he spoke.

Son, what are you? 

I was taken aback by this question. I thought well not a vampire if that is what you’re getting at. Why was he staring at me so much? What is he looking for? Fangs, bite marks, other visible marks that I am not human? What? So I responded with the best answer I could come up with for that random and odd question.

I’m Nick? A teacher?

I actually questioned my own identity as I said it. I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. The patriot responded

The only right answer to that question is American. 

He went on and on about kids these days and some more clichés abut hoodlums being on his lawn, the American flag and what it represents. In his head surely he was skeptical that I might be working in conjunction with the Sioux to take back the land the whites had rightly taken from the Indians. It was during this rant I barely listened to that it hit me. Alright, you’re one of those people. Let’s close up this conversation quickly because I would much rather not talk to you anymore. There are darts over there, so I’m going to go over there.  

The Drunk/Alcoholic

Now lots of people are alcoholics. There are different definitions of alcoholism giving different amounts of drinks per week but it’s all the same. If you drink so much you’re an alcoholic, you are most likely alienating yourself from people and most likely your job. It becomes the top of your priority list. For those of you who may not drink or not have many experiences with these people, it isn’t as easy to pick out an alcoholic as you think. The guy who is peeing down the side of his leg in the bathroom is not an alcoholic. He’s a drunk. The lady who threw up outside, fell down and unknowingly exposed herself to passersby is not an alcoholic. She’s a drunk. During all the commotion the man you sit next to at the bar and are having a decent conversation with is the alcoholic. You just didn’t notice the bartender take the previous 18 bottles away.

A drunk drinks copious amounts of drink and wakes up in the morning with shades of regret and possibly syphilis. An alcoholic can’t understand why his wife would get mad at him after coming home from the bar and staying up to drink another thirty beers. That’s not normal sir, you are an alcoholic.

Moreover, alcoholics make you feel bad. Not on purpose but just because he or she is in that situation. However a drunk makes you laugh. A drunk makes you feel better about yourself because you’re not the one passed out hovering a foot above your own shit in a bathroom at the bar. Oh yeah, and the stall door is open. You should clean up that jungle you got going on down there.  

   

The Couple

There were two or three couples consistently in the bar. I wonder if they really imagined on their honeymoon night that they would spend their later days getting blitzed in a bar next to a Boston Market.  

The Prostitute

Now I don’t have proof of this claim. I never procured any favors personally. But whenever I saw that gross greasy blond hair and that heroin-thin body walking towards me I made some room. Believe me, I made room.

The Mutes  

Now for the most part at a bar like this there is not a lot of lively conversation. That’s not to say it is quiet but a lot of the patrons have the same routine. Come in. Order the beer. Drink the beer. Watch TV. Order more beer. I often what the point of coming out to the bar is if you don’t plan on socializing with anyone. Couldn’t you just stay at home, ignore your wife, and drink beer in front of your own television? Not that it matters that much to me but it might save you some money. 

Hoods are not Acceptable

The perfect storm is raging at full throttle. Hawks are winning, of course. Bulls are losing, of course. And Texas is taking it up the Chocolate Highway from San Francisco as the games move towards their final stretches. I’ve seen a lot of crazy drunks in this bar but this guy was by far the craziest. He had that look on his face that you see only when you know a person has absolutely no idea what is going on. This look makes you question that he can even see you standing in front of him. My friend was wearing a knit hat and a hood over it. 

Crazy Old Man: Hey son, are you wearing a hat and a hood?

Friend: Uhh, yeah.

Crazy Old Man: You look like a… You look like a…

Friend: I look like a what?

Crazy Old Man: You look like a…

Friend: You’re talking like a crazy person. 

Stop. Now obviously you don’t call a drunken crazy person crazy. You might be able to get away with it when he’s sober but surely not when he’s drunk. Might as well poke a bear. 

After a tirade by the old crazy man about how he was only half crazy, how my friend should watch himself and how the government is stealing his white blood cells, the man returned to his stool. He grumbled to a couple of the regulars about how kids have no respect. It is absolutely unacceptable to wear a hat and a hood in an establishment like this one. This, coming from the man elegantly adorned in a t-shirt covered in paint sitting next to the guy that always wears that same Packers sweatshirt. But this old crazy man couldn’t let this outrage go and kept discussing it with the guys at the bar until the Patriot told him to settle down. I know these kids; they’re good kids he explained. Shortly after this the drunken idiot left the bar.

Now that’s when I realized that I was a part of this group. The Patriot knew me. He knew my friends. We were good people. I am one of the young ones. That’s the worst one to be. I wonder which of these old guys used to be the young one. They probably think the same way about me as I do about them. He’s the one who only comes in when the young girl is bartending. He’s always playing darts and smoking and I’m pretty sure he’s a freedom hating hippie because he always has those tie-dye shirts on. Did you hear what he said about Indians once? He might be a Lakota. No one thinks like that. 

Now they can think whatever they want it makes no difference to me. It had been a long time since we had been in that bar, but once I realized that we were members of this elite group of people, I decided I will never go back there again.