Fun and Near Death Experiences at an Urban Picnic

Classyandfancy was nice enough to invite me to a work related picnic the other day. She actually only knew a few people there, since it was a company on the periphery of her’s, but we were all about going because there was mention of a corn holing (bean bags) tournament. If you don't know what bean bags or conrnholing are all about, read my Cornholing and Dilly Shops post. The picnic turned out to be essentially people drinking beer and eating brats on folding chairs, on pavement, behind a warehouse, which was a-okay by me!

We thought it not fair that classy and I play together, since the awesomeness could possibly make the universe implode, so we split off onto separate teams. She played with a girl she knew from college, who organized the event, and I played with some strange guy named Paul. Paul had never played bags before, but he had an innate corn holing ability like nothing I’ve ever seen. He was a strange cat, but MAN could he bag! He kept sinking them and I kept screaming, “Big Paul!” I hope I wasn’t annoying, especially since nobody knew me, but it became clear through my conversations with people that nobody knew who the hell Paul was either.

After people started leaving, our plan was to drink a bottle of quality tequila on the roof of the warehouse. I was trying to get people to invite Paul, my unbelievable bags partner, but some thought it strange that he wandered in off the street, and he was a little strange to begin with. So, Classy, her college friend, a guy named Vanna White (who earned that name due to his scorekeeping ability during corn holing) and myself grabbed the keg and the tequila and headed for the freight elevator. When the elevator reached the top floor the door wouldn’t open. No big deal, we decided to go back down to the first floor and open the door, but it wouldn’t open there either! We were probably farting around in that hot ass elevator for over a half hour. I remember thinking, ‘I’m going to die on this elevator with Classy and Vanna, but at least we have a keg.’

Long story short, with some help, we got the door open, enjoyed some fine tequila on the roof of a warehouse, and then I ate the shit out of a Mexican skillet at some diner.

Enter the (Komodo) Dragon

I went to the Shed Aquarium the other day with my sister and my nephews. I’m trying to do a bunch of fun, little activities during the week before I have to go back to my real job. They have a lizard exhibit in town, which includes the infamous Komodo dragon. The komodo in Chicago did not move a muscle while we there, despite the ENORMOUS area he had to run around in. However, the video above him showed two of them wrestling on their hind legs. They are fricking huge, and they do, in fact, look like f’ing dragons. The video also informed me that they can hunt and kill a DEER, and then proceed to eat the mothafucka HOOVES and all. They showed a feeding frenzy with like 10 of them going to town on some sort of carcass, and I couldn’t help but think that even Chuck Norris himself would be in trouble if he found himself in the middle of THAT.

If you ever find yourself on the island of Komodo, my advice to you is say a little prayer like Dionne Warwick. You’re not safe on the ground, cause they’re fast. Trees are out cause they can climb those. The water is out too, cause they’re really good swimmers. I’m starting to see why Billy Bob Thornton is deathly afraid of them:

Bizarre actor Billy Bob Thornton wants the world population of the endangered komodo dragon to be killed off. Thornton is petrified of the reptiles, one of which crushed the foot of Sharon Stone's husband Phil Bronstein last year. Billy Bob says, "More than anything on this earth, more than any being that exists, they are the creature that represents evil. If it were up to me, I'd just go to that island and kill them all. I would just shoot those sons of bitches." The actor says he once had a dream the creatures infested his house and woke up his wife Angelina Jolie, insisting they go to a hotel because his dream was so real.*

Well, this is coming from the same guy who has a fear of antique furniture, but they are damn scary. Billy, if you’re reading, pack your bags. We’re off to Komodo to “shoot those sons of bitches.” YEEEEEEH HAAW! Hey, America, I mean 7 readers, what animal do you fear, or better still, think should be eliminated from God’s green earth?

Recently my 4-year-old nephew walked in on my sister (his mom) while she was going to the bathroom. Then the following exchange occurred:

A: You pee out your butt?
Mom: No.
A: Your weiner?
Mom: No, mommies don’t have wieners.
A: (Pause) Whachyou got then?
Mom: (Longer pause) A vagina.
A: ‘Gina? I don’t know no ‘gina.

Hey, I'm sorry if I'm adding yet another cutesy kid story to the heap of others in the blogosphere, but I'll be damned if that conversation and the little wheels turning in his little head didn't bring a smile to my face, and I hope your's.


*"A" is the sleeping kid on the right wearing the incredibles jammies.

Non-porno Movies That Make a Guy Reach for the Tissues

My roomy and I were watching Remember the Titans the other day, and he said it’s on a short list of movies he can admit to crying during. This led me to assemble a list of the All Time Greatest Male Tear Jerker Films in no particular order.

1. Old Yeller (1957): Everyone has lost a dog at some point in his/her life. Sure, not all of us have shot our frothing at the mouth dog in our backyard, but I think you get the idea.

2. Hoosiers (1986): That scene at the end when Gene Hackman is giving his speech and they are zooming in on the picture . . . I’m dripping tears onto my flipping keyboard just thinking about it. Let’s just move on.

3. Field of Dream (1989): “Dad, do you want to have a catch?” That’s all I have to say, ladies and gents.

4. Brian’s Song (1971): I love when Billie D. says, with a tear in his eye, “I love Brian Piccalo.” Come on?! The heterosexual, man-love flowing between Lando Calrissian and Sonny Corleon (just look at him presenting in this photo) is so THICK in that movie, and it teeters at the brink of gayness. I’m surprised Billie D. didn’t slip him some Colt 45, take advantage of him, and say, “works every time.”

5. Rudy (1993): Didn’t we all want him to finally get in a game? And then when he gets that meaningless sack on the quarterback we are as happy for him as a fat Jon Favreau.

6. Electric Horseman (1979): This one gets me every time when Robert Redford talks about his reasoning for setting the horse free, and there is a likeness between the aging rodeo star and the aging racehorse. Okay, this one wouldn’t make anyone else’s list, but I can’t discount a movie that gets the waterworks going every, damn time.

So, what are the commonalities of the male tear jerkers? It appears as if a guy needs an animal or sports to justify crying, which means Ed (1996) and Gus (1976) are the ULTIMATE male tear jerkers. If only Both films had taken a page from Old Yeller, and culminated with both animals being 'put down' by means of shotgun.

DOES ANYONE WANT TO WEIGH IN HERE? WHICH FILMS HAVE I MISSED.

Robot Breast Missiles

Classyandfancy, a friend of mine and one hell of a blogger, uses this picture for her blog profile. She picked it because she likes pandas, but I pointed out to her that the wings look like Tranzor Z’s. She, of course, had no idea what the hell I was talking about, and to her credit few do. However, as it turns out, the picture IS Tranzor Z related in that the character is called Panda Z, or something like that, and he is based on the robot character made famous, or somewhat famous anyway, from the cartoon and toy from my youth.

This led me to hark back to the Tranzor Z toy and the lucky friends of mine who had him. He stood about three feet tall, and he shot missiles from his fingers. Then I started to think about the girl robot in the cartoon who shot missiles from her boobies. I did a little research, and found these pictures, since I had to see for myself that my twisted little brain didn’t conjure up this unique form of attack. Sure enough, her name was Aphrodite, and as the picture below will prove, she DID in fact shoot titty missiles. Aphrodite the goddess was a all about love and beauty, but this robot was all about blowing shit up with her tits.

Then I discovered that there is a top-secret plan, so don’t tell anyone, to resolve all conflicts in the Middle East. At this very moment, our fine and wise president, Mr. George W. Bush, has his finger on a button that will unleash a giant Aphrodite robot upon Iraq and all the surrounding countries. She will then discharge a bevy of mammary missiles that will nuke the whole region of the globe back to the Stone Age. Most of these nations will not only hate that they are getting attacked by a giant robot, but the fact that she is scantily clad will be a form of cultural genocide. I mean, never mind the fact that her breasts are weapons, but she is showing her ANKLES! With just the right titty trajectory, spraying her fun bags of fury will in one fell swoop not only resolve all conflicts in the Middle East, but it will lower gas prices, balance the budget, find Nicole Brown Simpson’s “real” killer, and Christopher Reeves will come back from the dead and walk again. Now those are some magic titties.

Lollapalooza: 3 Days of Music and Short People

Okay, at long last, I’m going to sit down with my hot chips and my liter of Diet Pepsi, and I’m going to bang out a blog. I’m very bent about the promotion for free ring tones being over on the cap of this Diet Pepsi. Alas, I had to pay for Everything She Wants by Wham! to chime in when someone buzzes me. Don’t ask me why I picked that song. So, on to the topic at hand . . .

Lollapalooza, holy crap, that didn’t come up on spell check, was in town over the weekend. Have you seen the line-up? Despite the fact that almost all of my favorite bands were at this thing, for a myriad of reasons, I still couldn’t bring myself to buy tickets.

While working at Navy Pier I could hear the show faintly. I distinctly heard The Violent Femmes as well as Gnarles Barkley. After work I pedaled over to the show and watched what I could see of The Flaming Lips through the back entrance. They were the perfect band for peeping in on because I could see the fuzzy, animal suit people jumping around and the enormous inflatable Santa bouncing to the music. As I was rocking to the set on my bike, a girl handed me an Adidas sweatband, which I promptly put on my head. Where I was positioned turned out to be ideal for people watching. These guys on all terrain golf carts were driving V.I.P.’s around the enclosed area from one end of the stage to the other. I saw the singer from Gnarles Barkley and Matt Pinfield from MTV get rides, and they are both tiny, little, gnomes. I would never want to live in L.A. because I think it would be disheartening to spot all these famous people and see that they are no taller than Emanuel Lewis from Webster. Two different professional photographers took photos of me; I guess to document that there was a weirdo with a headband, sitting on his bike, trying to get something for free.

On Sunday my friend Brendan called me up and offered me two, free V.I.P. passes, which, for a very high fee, allow you to eat and drink all you like, all day. I got off work at 6 and Queens of the Stone Age went on at 6:30, so I had to run my ass around the lake, and over the river to the entrance, which turned out to be the wrong entrance, since my buddy with the passes was at the OTHER entrance. So I RAN my ass all the way around the stadium in my Chuck Taylor’s, and I have to go on record now and say those shoes, while they are very stylish, offer ZERO support. When we got into the stadium, my buddy went off to see Wilco, and me and my swollen feat made our way to the other stage to see Queens. I got myself a fruity, frozen drink for free and settled in for some rock. A beer is a far more manly libation to enjoy when you’re ‘raising the goblet of rock,’ but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t a refreshing cocktail on a balmy, Chicago night. The band was great, but I was hating on the moshing and crowd surfing. The latter ends with an idiot surfing to the stage, getting escorted around the side, then this asshole thinks he can barrel his way past me back to his friends. Mosh pits I don’t like because I can’t watch the band while keeping my eyes peeled for stray elbows. One idiot did fall down and hit me in the shin, which I was not happy about. I think my disdain for the pit was evident, and they eventually stayed clear of me.

My cohort and I opted to meet up, stay in the V.I.P. lounge, and drink our way through the Red Hot Chili Peppers. It was pretty far away from the stage, but the free booze was too tempting. The other option was watching staple surgery poster boy John Popper and Blues Traveler, but I’ll hold out for next summer when they split a Ribfest bill with Eddy Money.

On our way into the V.I.P. lounge entrance, we saw a guy dressed in all white with black eye makeup trying to reason with the staff to let him in. It was bazaar because he looked at me like he knew me, and I looked back at him since I was pretty sure I knew him. I thought maybe I went to high school with him, but then it occurred to me that it was Jared Leto, who I WATCHED go to high school on My So Called Life. As it happens, his shitty band played a no doubt shitty set at Lollapalooza. Ladies, I’m sorry to break this to you, but while he does have captivating eyes, he too is a gnome, hobbit, or some other form of hafling. I remember thinking, “Hey Jared, you keep trying to argue with these folks. I’m going to go inside and have myself a couple of girly drinks, because I’m a V.I.P. and you’re not. And, oh yeah, your acting career is floundering, your band is getting horrible reviews, and you’re short.”

Pedaling His Way Through a Second Puberty

Floyd Landis*, Tour de France winner, has been accused of taking performance-enhancing drugs. “In his first public appearance since a urine test showing a testosterone imbalance cast his title into doubt, the American said his body's natural metabolism -- not doping of any kind -- caused the result, and that he would soon have the test results to prove it.”

In other words, “I have an ‘abnormally high testosterone ratio’ because I have a steady stream of testosterone pumping through me at all times. I’m ALL MAN! I had chest hair when I was four, my balls dropped when I was 5, and I banged my kindergarten teacher in between snack time and nap time when I was 6!”

This got me thinking about tests for abnormally high levels of estrogen in men. Shouldn’t someone test Chris Carrabba from Dashboard Confessional? I think that Mr. Carrabba has been doping with estrogen for years to churn out puss rock of the worst order, and someone needs to ween him off of the stuff, fast.

I also started thinking about what my “doping” might be in terms of bike riding. Sure, the threat of being late for work gets the pedals moving, but I really think my ipod is the ace up my sleeve. I think if Lance Armstrong and I were racing along Lakeshore drive, myself with Feel Good Hit of the Summer by Queens of the Stone Age bumping and him with anything by Sheryl Crow polluting his ears, I do believe I’d blow by him quicker than he dumped his wife and started dating an aging rock star, despite the fact that his ex stuck with him through nut cancer, and left a good job to help him start his nut cancer foundation.**

*Jesus, look at his face! If a man embodies an overly productive, fully functional testosterone factory it is this guy.
**Perhaps I was a little hard on Lance, and my fact-finding may have been suspect, but I had to get a good analogy for the speed at which I’d kick his ass, given a good series of ipod songs.