Marry 'Um, Kill 'Um, or F@%k 'Um

Some of Chicago's finest bloggers, all of which can be found at theliarsclub.blogspot.com, got together at a watering hole, along with the out of town I'm Not, and we played a board game called Mary Them, Dump Them, and Do Something Else BORING to Them - Only we changed it to Marry 'Um, Kill 'Um, or F@%k 'Um.

We all had our own strategies, and it's bazaar when we all agree, especially when it comes to which person should be MURDERED. I would usually figure out first, who I want to marry, then, who I want to kill, and finally, just F' the remaining person.

It was decided that we should all pick a card from the game and blog our choices, and my card read Mr. T., Mr. Clean, and Mr. Rogers.

Marry 'Um: Mr. Rogers. He's organized, he's got a cool house with cool stuff, and he has a punctual mail man. He even has a trolley that can take you to the World of Make Believe, or whatever. This led us to say what we'd do to those people, and we all wanted to kill that crotchety, old bitch in the Ferris Wheel thing, and bang the holy hell out of the little cat lady who said meow every couple of words, which would in this case be like, "Give it to me, meow. That's the spot, Gancer, meow." Bottom line, you might tire of Mr. Rogers singing while he changes sweaters and shoes for the 4th or 5th time of the day, but you just know he'd be super-nice, and one heck of a swell hubby.

Kill 'Um: Mr. Clean. I have nothing against Mr. Clean, but I just don't know him as well as the other two fellas. I grew up with Mr. Rogers, and Mr. T. is not only from Chicago, but he was Clubber Lang in Rocky AND B.A. Baracus on the A-Team. I mean, hell, I played A-Team in recess, and although I was Hannibal, their fearless leader, I always respected Mr. T.'s no-nonsense attitude and seemingly limitless threshold for gold jewelry worn at once. All I know about Mr. Clean is he's bald, and he cleans floors. That's it. So, sadly, he must die.

F@%K 'Um: That leaves us with Mr. T. This is awkward, since I'm a straight male, but someone has got to get f@%ked, and he's all that's left. Well, he's fit . . . He has bodyguard experience, so he might be able to protect me if I were F'ing him . . . Maybe he'd lend me some jewelry . . . Please don't make me F' Mr. T!!!!!! Well, I guess it beats getting F'd BY Mr. T., which would be far more painful and traumatizing.

Okay, seven readers, where are you casting your votes, and do you want to throw in a new set of names?

When I Grow Up I Want To Be a Drunken Game Show Host

On Sunday, I nestled into a nice little groove in my couch and watched about three episodes of Ninja Warrior, a Ninja reality show, which is an idea I thought I made up (damn it!), and about four classic episodes of The Family Feud. I learned three things about Richard Dawson, and they are as follows.

1. He's often piss-drunk
2. He kisses lots of female contestants on the mouth
3. He kicks ass (see points one and two)

No current TV game show host in this day and age could hold a job if he/she were to show up drunk. Pat Sajak is really established and a fixture of late afternoon, American television, but a couple drunk episodes, and he'd be escorted off the set. As for Vana White, hell she could do that job drunk and nobody would care. Hell, a drunk muskrat could spin those stupid letters. ANYWAY, in a couple Feud episodes that we saw, Richard was downright unintelligible. I searched high and low on You Tube for the drunkest episodes, because I swear you'd laugh your ass off, but it was mostly postings of his final show, in which he was surprisingly sober, and an American Gladiators episode*. I didn't watch to see if he kissed the Gladiator women, but I think Zap could put him through a wall if he got too fresh.

I did, however, find a posting of a show I had seen earlier on the Game Show Network in which it was Richard's birthday. The producers surprised him by having, instead of the usual troglodyte family behind the door, in this case the Larson Family, his daughter and son in law were there with a cake. I'd be pissed if I were the Larson family, because the coolest part of being on the show was striking a funny pose behind the door, like everyone playing poker. Anyhow, when Richard saw his family members in place of the, in my opinion, cheated Larson Family, he was moved to tears, and he proceeded to, true to form, kiss both his son and his daughter-in-law on their respective mouths. Yuck! Then it got weirder when the producers sprung another surprise on him by flying out his long-lost son, who isn't just any son, but a SKUNK BOY son. Can anyone figure out why he has those skunk streaks in his hair? Too bazaar for words. You just have to watch.

Skunk Boy!!

*Oddly enough, many of the posted videos had Mighty Dykerson's name on it. Mighty, did you beat me to a Richard Dawson post?

Wood/Water

Although The Promise Ring couldn't get into my all-time favorite bands list with a battering ram and/or MacGyver, they made one album, Wood/Water, which is easily among my top five albums. All their other albums are pop/punk, which, granted, they were way ahead of all these clone bands, but this one is packed with somber, heart-felt, well-written, killer songs. It takes a few listens, and I must admit that, at first, I thought it was puss rock of the worst order. I even shelved it for quite some time. Then somehow, and thankfully so, it made its way into my car during the worst episode of my life: My divorce. I cried to these songs so many times that every time I hear one of them it's like talking to an old friend who helped me through trying times. As it turns out, the songs have more to do with the lead singer thinking he was going to die of brain cancer than it did a break up. Break ups, brain cancer, whatever the songs are about, the record means something to me, and probably always will.

How about you, seven readers? What album will always have a little place in your heart?

A Farewell To the Bull-Goose, Looney Roomie (BGLR)*

If I've told you my living situation too many times, I apologize, but I live with 4 other men. Over the past year or so I've lived with one of the craziest guys I've ever known, and while he was a friend I knew to be a little eccentric before he moved in, I had no idea just how nutty he was until I lived with him for a while. Here are some of the wackiest moments, and thanks to JC and others who helped me remember some of the funnier ones. There are tons more events that pissed me and the other roomies off more, which would better illustrate what a bad roomie he has been, but as always, I'm going more for laughs with these. If you are the roomie in question, and you're reading this, I'm really sorry, but it's too funny not to post. You're the worst roommate ever, but just know, you'll always be a good friend of mine.

7) On the first weekend one other roomie had moved in, we're sitting on the couch watching football, and BGLR is eating the contents of a bag filled to the rim with items carefully chosen from Wendy's dollar menu. I can see it dawning on him that his order had been messed up, and while the poor, unsuspecting new roomie had no idea what was in store, I knew full well that the wrath of BGLR was about to come crashing down right in our living room. BGLR lifted a burger into the air, about to throw it, stopped, thought better of it, then changed his mind BACK, and spiked the burger onto his television tray like a football player who had just scored a touchdown, only this was an ANGRY touchdown, which sprayed the contents of the burger all across the room. I watched the new roomie to see his reaction, and as he picked the lettuce shrapnel off his chest, I could tell that he was wondering what in the hell he had gotten himself into.

6) BGLR has ADHD. One day he was sitting at the kitchen island reading three magazines, sprawled across the counter, all at once. He said, pointing to one of three magazines, "Hey Gancer, they got a bike auction this weekend." Then pointing to another, "Look at the ass on this chick in Maxim." Then pointing to yet another publication, "You can get a good deal on computers here." He is a restless, intense man, and I love him/hate him for that.

5) One night I woke up the entire apartment with this girl, and most of the roomies were cool about it. BGLR wasn't too cool about it. He came out of his room, which is next door to mine, to tell us we were too loud, and just then my guest opened the door to make her naked walk down the hallway to see BGLR standing in the doorway. She shrieked and darted down the hall, and into the bathroom. He saw us BOTH naked that night/morning. He then slammed every door he could think of, hollered, screamed, and all the roomies said that they did hear the goings-on of my guest and myself, but they all said that BGLR's antics were way louder. The worst part: He said, "Can't you do this at (Insert Name Here's) house, and it wasn't (Insert Name Here).

4) This

3) Before BGLR moved into our place, I had to abruptly move him out of his other place. I'll get into the reasons why he had to move out in number 2. As we're gathering up his belongings, he says to me, "Gancer, you're going to get to see the infamous Red Chest. When he opened up the surprisingly classy chest, I saw that the contents were anything but classy. The contents were, in fact, more pornography than I ever thought could be packed into a mere 3 X 4 foot space. Evidently, BGLR ran a rather lucrative porno rental business on his floor of his dormitory in college. I was honored to have seen the Red Chest, which he spoke of like it were the Holy Grail. He parted ways with the Red Chest and its contents that day, but he has amassed a 100 gig library of porn on his computer in its absence. I don't know a lot about porn or computers, okay fine, I probably know a little more about the former than the latter, but I know enough about the latter to know that 100 gig is a big number when you're dealing with porn.

2) He had to move out of his last place because of an incident that started with his last roomy taking too long of a shower on the morning of an important review at BGLR's workplace. An argument ensued, the guy lunged at BGLR, BGLR punched him, and threw his naked body into the shower. Then the other guy chased him down the hallway, naked, and tried to stab him with the shower curtain rod. The way he told the story, he made it sound like it was all the other guy's fault, but knowing what I know now, the other guy could have been a totally sane guy, who happened to live with the worst roommate ever.

1) The Orientation
When we suddenly needed two new roommates, BGLR spear-headed the search. He was really getting into showing people the place and looking for the right fit, but like everything else in his life, it caused him a lot of stress. By the time he had scheduled a meet and greet with the two chosen roomies, he was so relieved to have the process over, that he decided to indulge in a jumbo bottle of Jack Daniels. By the time the new roomies got there, he was 3/4 drunk. Myself and a current resident spent all our time trying to cover for BGLR, who was saying all kinds of stupid things and farting. Yes farting. All I could think was, "God, I hope these guys don't think he drinks like this every week night." But he does . . . He then went out for drinks with one of the prospective roomies, who ended up backing out that night. BGLR claims that the guy propositioned him to move out to a different place with him, and BGLR sent him packing. That's probably not what happened, and while I'll never know what actually happened, I saw enough at the orientation to know that the tight-assed potential tenant probably made a break for it, which was the right call for him, and we actually got a cooler roomie out of the deal, thanks to the drunken orientation.

BGLR, as I said earlier, I'll always consider you a close friend, and if you're reading this, I hope you're not mad at me for posting these tales. We'll be TEN times better friends at the end of the month when you're living a comfortable TEN city blocks west of me.

* Propers to anyone who can name what book/movie this is from?
** I stumbled across this blog, which also involved our departing friend.

Wanted: The Devil to Whom I Will Sell My Soul in Exchange for Guitar Ability

I've been taking guitar lessons, and let me tell you, it's a daunting, overwhelming experience. Even when my teacher tries to teach me a supposedly easy song, like Brown Eyed Girl (I didn't pick the song, I swear) it's fricking hard?! Why'd Van have to go with D7 chords and the like? I don't even like practicing at home, because I feel bad for my roommates, who must think I'm slowly sticking bamboo shoots into the virtual finger nails of my cheap ass guitar, and making it howl in agony. I overheard my one roommate, who is like a violin prodigy, say, "He's just not seeing the chords." No, asshole, I suppose I'm not, and it's God damned frustrating! I'm really impatient, and I just want to play like Slash and have girls throwing their underwear on stage, like tomorrow would be a good time for that to start happening.

You know those luffa sponge things with the stick on it? I really like the ones without the stick, for bathing purposes because you can get a firmer grip, and scrub better. In reality, there is only about a 3 square inch spot on your back that the stick helps you hit, and I'll sacrifice the tiny, unscrubbed section of my back for more overall torque* any day. However, what the stick variety of luffa lacks in showering practicality it makes up for it in spades by opening the door to shower-time, air guitar sessions! When I take a shower every morning, I air guitar the shit out of my luffa on a stick, and behind that curtain, I AM the guy getting panties thrown at him. By the truck load. My actual guitar skills clearly suck, so far, but my air guitar abilities have never come into question. I am up and down the fret of that luffa stick with all the deft, finger-flying antics of a rock God. I'll even hit up some whammy bars at opportune moments, let loose with some finger tapping a-la Eddie Van Halen, and even bang out some Pete Townsendesque windmills. I'm yet to get on my knees, set my luffa on fire, and beckon the flames to rise with my finger tips, like Hendrix. That might be a bit much. Even for me.

I've been finding it's really tough to go from the naked, guitar prodigy rocking the crowd with all the energy of a rabid hyena to the dorky, dim witted 30-year-old guy sitting with his uncooperative, real guitar, saying to himself, "Okay, now leave that finger there, pick up all the other ones, and strum that flipping D7 chord. Now how's the strum pattern go? Down, down, down, up, up, down, up . . ." Shower Rock God never has to concentrate like that. It just comes innate to him, like breathing.

How about you, seven readers, do you air-guitar, air-microphone, air-viola (that sounds like areola)?

*Leverage might be the better choice for a word here, but I've never used the word torque in a blog, and I wanted to get it in before my 100th post.