Romance

Readers, do you consider yourself romantic? I certainly did not think I was as recently as a few years ago, but now I am unequivocally a romance guy. Gancey Girlfriend helped me see the joy in living this way, and now I do it not just to make her happy, which is super important to me now, but because I want to - because it brings me joy to see her happy.


A lot of people are under the impression that being romantic involves flying your lady around the world, buying her pink diamonds, pouring Cristal Champagne all over her naked body (how wasteful), but all you have to do, and listen carefully, male readers, is remind her all the time that she matters to you. You could do this most every day, and it doesn't cost a thing. Trust me when I say this: When you can keep her happy, you'll both be happier. Don't ever take your partner for granted, think you can just coexist without putting forth any effort, or put off doing anything nice until special occasions. Doing the little things every day will make you both stronger as a couple every day. God, I sound like Dr. Phil here, but I really just want to share this so that everyone can feel as happy as I feel, all seven of my readers.

I say this on the day of my two-year anniversary. We met two years ago on New Years Eve. She was sad about a situation, and everyone seemed wrapped up in themselves, partying. I sat by her and asked her what was wrong, for no other reason than I was sad to see her sad. Despite meeting numerous times, we found out we had a lot in common - yet so much not in common. What mattered was the connection. We kissed for the first time on my balcony, just as snow started to fall, and it was magic - fireworks. One doesn't feel that very often in a lifetime, but when you do, go for it. Don't over think these thing: when there's a connection that makes you feel good, you owe it to yourself to see if you can make it work because you feel that way for a reason.

Okay, I have to get ready to celebrate.

Happy New Years to all of you: my longtime readers, the lurkers, and everyone.

Wishing you love, romance, and fireworks in your new year.

-Dr. Ken

S.T.

"You Can't Bring Me Down" by Suicidal Tendencies came up on shuffle on my ride home today, and I was pumped, singing along, and feeling just like Mike Muir: standing up against whoever or whatever it is that's trying to keep me down.

Although, I don't really know of any force right now trying to get me down.

My massive amounts of student loans?

The bitchy lady today at Kinkos?

The guys who didn't ship a gift for Gancey Girlfriend in time for Christmas?

The four days worth of paperwork I have to do in one day tomorrow?

These are not unstoppable forces and clearly not causing the kind of angst I was feeling in the car, head banging away, but perhaps it took me back to when I listened to this song - back when I was a teenager. A pimply, sexually frustrated, socially awkward, angry at the world teenager. That or I really needed a release from that Kinkos lady pissing me off . . .

And now, for no reason at all, here's a hot girl doing the splits in her ice skates.

You KNOW Who Charlie Is, You Dim Witted A-Hole, Always Falling Ass-Backwards Into Money . . .

For some reason I was thinking about the Vietnam scenes in the 1994 film, Forrest Gump, specifically when Forrest narrates something to the effect that they were always looking for some guy named "Charlie." Now, I know he's mentally challenged, but I just can't believe that a guy couldn't know that Charlie was a term for all the guys they were trying to kill and not just one dude they were spending months or years trying to find. If the guy could run a shrimp business, become the best ping-pong player in the world, and raise a kid, surely he can figure out why it is they were in Vietnam - to kill people. If he didn't kill anyone and couldn't figure out something that easy, he would not have come home with just a bullet in his butt - he would have been dead.

Sure, I'll believe he could randomly meet every President and most every noteworthy person in his lifetime.

Yeah, I'll believe a mentally retarded kid from rural Alabama inadvertently taught his house guest, Elvis Presley, how to dance.

I have no problem believing that he could run for days and days straight across the country without his nipples bleeding off, his thighs burning red hot, and straining every muscle in his body.

But, what I will not believe is that any kind of idiot could have fought a foreign war without knowing the slang term for the bad guys they were trying to shoot. No. I just won't believe that. You're a helluva actor, Tom, but Dr. Ken is not buying that one.

Mike

Gancey Girlfriend and I were watching some show on E! where they were talking about all the people who died in 2009, which was way too many people, and they were showing bits from Michael Jackson's funeral. During Stevie Wonder's speech, and I imagine he talked more than he played, which is par for the course for Stevie, he said something along the lines that we needed Mike here on earth, but God must have needed him more, to which Gancey Girlfriend said . . .

Gancey Girlfriend: Why should we assume that he is going to Heaven?

Dr. Ken: That's true! He could be getting molested by demons in hell even as we speak!

GG: Did you really just say that?

DK: What would that be like? Wow! That would be no picnic, but I guess he deserves it if he, in fact, touched all those kids.

GG: (looks back at the television, ignoring him)

DK: Do you think Beelzebub* has a devil put aside for Mike . . . For Mike . . . For MIKE!! (starts into the heavy metal part of Bohemian Rhapsody).

GG: (Continues to try to ignore but cracks a smile, which only encourages him)
_______________________________
*I thought for sure that I read somewhere that Beelzebub is the guy in Hell who tortures the crap out of people and makes them scream so loud we can hear it on Earth, but I couldn't find it on the Them Internets. If anyone can find anything about that, I'm thinking either Michael 5000 or Zen Wizard would be especially up for this challenge, let me know in the comments.

Have Yourself a Gancey Little Christmas!

Here's what Dr. Ken was up to this holiday . . .

1. Played with the new self-inflating whoopie cushion. Whoever invented this thing is a genius and a terrific problem solver because the whole drag of the toy was that it was a pain to keep blowing up, and now it's farting fun for hours. Brilliant!

2. Participated in two-player Avatar with the four-year-old. While controlling our blue Avatars to sneak up on the soldiers in the forest, the four-year-old kept attacking me, his supposed ally. I warned him several times, tried hitting him back a few times, threatened to stop playing if he didn't stop, and eventually did have to storm off in a huff like an overgrown dumb kid.

3. Dr. Ken's family drank a crap-ton of wine, and now would be a good time for a bloody Mary with a pickle and no olives . . .

4. Did bench presses, pressing the four-year-old, and it's not as easy as it used to be.


5. Read a Christmas Mad Lib to the camera, with the 2nd-grader providing the mostly gross nouns, verbs, and adjectives. I'd attach it here, but as some of you know, I'm dumb. (see number two about the overgrown dumb kid thing).

6. Tried to text jokes to my buddy who's in the hospital over Christmas having surgery. He'll be fine, but I'm sure it feels like a drag for him. I'd share the jokes with you, but they're mostly disgusting (unwarranted prostate checks being theme).

7. Realized I suck at puzzles and give up easily when I've had too much Riesling.

8. Missed the Gancey Girlfriend who's in Iowa. : (

9. Read the first chapter of his idol, Chuck Klosterman's, new book.

10. Gancey Dad bought way too big of a turkey for just four people to eat, but he will turn it into turkey tetrazzini and turkey broccoli casserole for Dr. Ken to take back to the city. Word is bond.

Gancey Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

A Survey You're Not Likely To Find Anywhere Else

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Please vote as many times as you like and leave me a comment as well because I need some qualitative data as well in this most important of research.

After voting, be sure to click where it says "See how other users in . . . are polling" to see funny words in a bar graph, hee hee, I mean, this is serious research here! It will even highlight which states voted for the different words so that we can see if the data suggests any regional trends to theses wonderful slang terms.

Then, be sure to see the completed survey along with a detailed report when the results are published by the good Doctor in Scientific American.

Peen Wash

A good friend of mine was just in town for the Heterosexual Life Partner's wedding for which Dr. Ken was the best man, and this good friend was telling us over tapas about an odd incident he witnessed in college.

He went to Purdue University where at the time many Japanese students attended, and in the bathroom one day, a Japanese fellah was peeing next to him. They both finished peeing at the same time and ended up at the sinks at the same time, where out of the corner of his eye, my buddy saw this guy wash his hands, and then take out his penis and wash it too, with the same rubbing hands together motion you would use to do the hands, only with a penis in between.

Sound weird? We all thought so, but then the good Doctor did some research . . .

Apparently this practice is common among Muslims, so maybe this guy was just keeping it real in accordance with the Koran?

I also read where some people just think it's good hygiene, especially if you're uncircumcised because one guy here said that he got a film under his penis that started to smell . . . Yuck!!

Anyone ever hear of this practice, see it done, or just have some thoughts on the matter? Leave a comment or wash my penis. Those are your only options.

AC/DC: Ugliest Band of All Time

I heard an AC/DC song in the shower today, and I was thinking, they might be the ugliest band ever to plug in.

Every guy in that band is damn weird looking.

Originally, they had singer Bon Scott on vocals, who was an ugly hairy man with a big bulge in his pants, but then he froze to death in his car.






They had Angus Young on lead guitar, who makes weird faces hopping around in a school boy outfit like he's having a stroke. A really ugly stroke.










They had Angus' brother on rhythm guitar, and he doesn't get as much credit as he should for being one of the funniest looking guys in rock.





They had a series of bass players early on, finally settling on Cliff Williams for the long haul, and although he was a decent looking guy, as he ages and keeps the long hair, he's starting to look like the guy from the Beauty and the Best television series in the late 1980's.












Then they had Phil Rudd on drums, who wasn't that ugly.









But, they got this guy who is extremely ugly.






He kind of looks like this guy from the Smokin' in the Boys Room Motley Crue video and Weird Science.






After Bon Scott died, they got Brian Johnson, who looks and sounds like he's constipated when he sings, making him that much uglier.


All in all, although they deserve a lot of credit for sticking to a rocking formula for years and not straying from it through numerous trends in music around them, it's hard to beat this band for ugliness. Readers, can you think of an uglier one?

Have You Seen These Guys?

This video cracked me up, and the song has been on my head on repeat for the last few days. I never knew as a kid that the Black guy was the guy from Earth Wind and Fire. Anyway, enjoy, and if you ever bust your roommate doing what the guy in this video does, move out and move out fast, even if you don't get your security deposit back . . .

And as always, be sure to click pause button on the music player on the left side blow the Gancey Followers before hitting play on the vid. Also, the vid might be scrunched in, so you may just want to head over to their site and watch it along with the one where the guy tries to dump his GF by saying he's a figment of her imagination, like in the Sixth Sense.

Too Many Groups

Have any of you folks who are members of Facebook noticed that you can start a group for anything you want? Try this, search the dumbest thing you can think of . . . Say, you want to form a group for people who like shrimp egg rolls (I just ordered myself Chinese). Let's do a search . . . Okay. Bad example.

How about a group for people who like curly fries . . . Yup. There's like a million of them, one of which has over 700,000 members.

The beauty of these groups is that there is zero commitment. I'm a a fan of clear gummy bears, and to be a fan involves doing absolutely nothing except be wiling to have something on my profile saying I like clear gummy bears.

The reason I'm talking about this really stupid topic is that I just found a group on Facebook called: I Exude Buck-wild-ed-ness!!! There is very little explanation of what it means to exude such a thing, outside of it being a Flavor of Love quote, but it must be good if there are three exclamation points. Total number of members of this group: One. And his name is Cameron "Drama King" Jackson.

I'm not going to join this group, but I could if I wanted to because, again, zero commitment. The point is that anyone can start up a stupid group with no point. Readers, do me a favor and do a search for the most random thing you can think of, and let me know if there is an existing group/fan page. Also, Drama King, if you've searched your unique name and found this post, I'm sorry. Don't hate. Let's save the drama for your mama. That's a horrible expression, and I'm sorry I used it. I bet there's a fan page for that dumb expression . . .

Dream Analysis

I couldn't think of anything to blog about, so I went over to dreammoods.com to analyze one of my dreams.

Here is what it said:

To see breasts in your dream, symbolizes primal nourishment and your need to be nursed and care for. It represent motherhood, nurturance, and infantile dependency . . .

. . . Seeing naked breasts can also denote a feeling of exposure and invasion of privacy. In particular, for a woman, the dream may indicate anxieties about becoming a woman/mother.

Can't it just mean I like boobs?

What have you been dreaming about lately, seven readers? Let me know in the comments.

"What do you think we should go with here, Punkleton," he said to his girlfriend's cat, Punky, often called Punkleton and other new nicknames added daily, just as she predictably jumped up onto the counter, horning in on his project of picking out an herbal tea, but more because she thought she may get a "treat-treat."

"I got Lemon Lift, Chamomile, Ginger Root . . ."

Punky stared at him. Disinterested.

"You got your Tazo, White Tea . . . Oolong? "Me love you Oolong time," he stated in a stereotypical East Asian voice.

Punky was not particularly offended by the racial comment, but still disinterested.

". . . Black Tea, Burdock Root. Burdock? 'Burdock, you crazy!" He said in his best Mr. T. voice. "Remember that? Of course you don't. You're way too young to have been rocking the A Team. Plus you're a cat.

Punkleton hopped off the counter, looking for something more interesting to attend to; perhaps someone left a paper bag out that she could crawl into.

Competitive Eating and Competitive Pooing

I was watching something about competitive eating with two guys wolfing down 20 White Castle burgers a piece, and I was wondering what their poos must be like after a showing like that. I mean, let alone the fact that even a small amount of White Castle will have you on the can for an hour, but 20 of them?

I then did some research about the sad, sad aftermath of competitive eating that you don't hear about, but you'll hear about it here at The Gancer . . .

According to PoopReport.com, yes there is such a site, Carson "Collard Green" Hughes, after putting down two and one half pounds of collard greens in 17.5 seconds, had a quite an experience that I'll share with you. Don't read this if you're easily grossed out, but if not, get a "load" of this because it's damn funny:

"Around 10:00 that night, the end result occurred," Hughes explained. "All those collards that went in had to come out. What a fast turn-around time! I guess roughage can speed things up a bit. For me, the collards acted like an internal scrub brush -- they cleaned me out from one end to the other. My stomach began rumbling with that all-knowing feeling that I must get to the bathroom quick. Once there, down came the pants and a big plop on the seat, and I was ready. Boy, just in time, because the explosion of a lifetime occurred. It could be compared to an atom bomb, but it was dark green in color -- soft, hard, and runny. A blend of stool. Some of it ended up on the sides of the bowl. Some in the back of the bowl. But most of it sunk to the bottom of the bowl when it hit the water. There were a few floaters that looked like whipped green mousse topping and were about the size of a moon pie. The level of the water rose about two inches."

Wow. Sounds messy! But wait, there's more? You may be thinking to yourself, "he paints quite a picture, but what did it smell like?" Well . . .

"My industrial-size fan in the master bedroom was no match for the fallout. The smell radiated out of the bathroom and right into the hallway and bedroom. It was not a pleasant smell. Lysol could not put a dent in this foul evil green monster that rested in the bottom of the bowl. After several flushes and several hours of spraying, it was finally tolerable. Good thing my wife was at work."

So, evidently if you're looking to get into competitive eating, you better set some time aside for the "aftermath," as it's quite an endeavor. Better have a couple magazines in the old shit house. And a mop. And two or three cans of Lysol. And . . . Actually, Dr. Kenneth is recommending right now that you just never, ever get into competitive eating.

I Booty Called Again

You've seen it here before at The Gancer, and you're about to see it again: A Gancey Song (Over) Analysis, this time to the tune of I Saw Her Again (1968) by the Mama's and the Papa's.

I saw her again last night,
And you know that I shouldn't
Just string her along; it's just not right
If I couldn't I wouldn't.
But what can I do; I'm lonely too.
And it makes me feel so good to know
She'll never leave me.

(So, in other words, he admits that he really shouldn't keep meeting up and sleeping with this woman because she really likes him, but he's lonely, and it's comforting knowing that she'll continue to put up with it and always be around for him. Wow. That's screwed up.)

I'm in way over my head;
Now she thinks that I love her (yeah, yeah)
Because that's what I said
Though I never think of her.
(No, no, never think of her)

I never think of her. I never noticed that line before. He's assuming that she's always thinking of her, and he never even enters his mind until he's had too many cocktails and doesn't want to go home alone. How sad! This song is ahead of its time

But what can I do? I'm lonely too.
And it makes me feel so good to know
(And it makes me feel so good to know...)
She'll never leave me.

Every time I see that girl,
You know I wanna lay down and die.
But I really need that girl
Though I'm living a lie;
(Though I'm living a lie...)
It makes me wanna cry

I thought he never thought of her? Suddenly she makes him cry, and he's writing a song about her. This is good story telling by Big Poppa, or whoever wrote this thing.

The rest of the song pretty much repeats earlier parts, but here's the bottom line: This is the original booty call song. Sure, Chicago house music "artist" Fast Eddie had the hit (in some parts of the country) song "Booty Call," but that wasn't until 1995, and it wasn't nearly as deep. You know cowriter John Phillips is an interesting guy if he loaded his daughter up on heroin and shtupped her for half of her life, messing up her mind until she liked it, which is an effect called the Stockholm Syndrome, in case you're a half-assed psychology minor like Dr. Ken and you're into that sort of shit. Now, I said he was an interesting guy, not a good guy.



Dr. Ken was no stranger to the booty call in his day, and not unlike our protagonist in the song, it was 80% out of pure loneliness and 20% pure horniness. To be fair, when I'd get the booty call, or text as they typically were, the girls were just as lonely, and half the time I wouldn't get some! And that was actually okay because I would take the 2nd or 3rd base or even a solid single to going home alone. Pathetic, yes, but at least those days are behind me. And at least I'm not nailing my daughter.

Blame It on the Henney

Ron Artest just came forward saying that he drank Hennessy during games while he was playing with the Chicago Bulls because he was depressed about the team being so bad. Man, I know my city has some bad sports teams, but guzzling Henney before taking the court? Come on! And it has to be a Black man drink, right? It couldn't be some wine coolers or some Sam Adams? No. Do you think he ever mixed it up some nights with some "Yak" (that means Cognac).


You ever use some kind of bad, bad vice to get you through tough times? Do you have a good caption for the picture of him with the dogs that's more clever than "What's up, dogg?" I should hope so.

Soup Kitchen

I accompanied my roommate to a soup kitchen at his church, and here's what I learned.

1. Not all soup kitchens serve soup: some serve pizzas. We got 18 free ones donated from the place across the street.

2. One guy likes to put salad dressing in his coffee every week.

3. The patrons who chose to stay for an art class afterwards got to make snowflakes out of paper plates, and it occurred to me, do these guys really want to think about snow when they have no shelter and a harsh Chicago winter right around the corner? Maybe we can make some suns or something.

4. But, I shouldn't make fun of this lady because she was doing a really great job and doing an extremely nice thing with her time. I'd really like to start a blog page where I post compositions of some of these guys, helping them edit, type, or whatever, crafting their stories. You know these guys have some great stories to tell, and I could share my gift of writing . . . Or I could just hand out slices of pizza every couple of weeks.

5. Why don't homeless guys in Chicago take all that money they beg and save for and buy a plane ticket to go somewhere warmer? I can't stand being outside for more than a half hour when it's cold - how do these guys stand it all day out there? It's so sad, but so strange that they don't get the hell out of here.

6. My roomy told me that at an art and poetry exposition of these guys recently, they had their biographies. I was wondering if it would be better to include the circumstances that led them to homelessness, how long they've been on the streets, where they sleep, and things like that, or would it be better to not touch on that at all to focus on who they are as human beings. Or, would ignoring the fact that they're homeless be not mindful of their situation, and is reminding people of it important to their plight?

Anyone ever work with the homeless? Any thoughts?

I Called a Chicago Radio Station Today To Talk About Some Personal Stuff . . .

. . . and I got through on the first try! The producer guy picked up, asked me my name, I told him my name, and he liked what I had to say and said he'd get me on the air. As I sat on hold, it dawned on me that I gave my real name, so I hung up.

Best Man No-no's

I'm going to be giving a Best Man speech at HLP's* wedding in a couple of weeks, and I've put together a list of things not to say in a speech.

- Don't spend too much time talking about how close you and the groom are. Just a couple quick words about how you know one another, not an "I love this guy, man" type of thing.

- If you have a story to tell about the groom, make it one - just one. Also, don't tell ones that are too embarrassing and mean. I went to one not too long ago where I was really pissed because the guy told around three stories all highlighting why the groom, who I think is a terrific guy, is absent minded.

- Don't ever, ever talk about the bachelor party. Even saying, "I'm not going to talk about the bachelor party is saying too much.

- Don't try to be too funny. This isn't your big break into comedy, it's just a time to say a few nice words about the bride and groom. And don't laugh at your own jokes.

- Keep it short. Anything over five minutes is too long.

- Don't forget to thank everyone who helped make the night possible.

- Only one toast, not two or three.

- I know it's nerve racking to talk in front of hundreds of people, and I know it's an open bar, but don't get too drunk. I'd say a three drink maximum before the speech is a good rule of thumb.

Any other good rules I should abide by that I've forgotten? Let me know before I unknowingly break one that you think I should stick to. Thanks!

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*HLP = Heterosexual Life Partner

"Don't Feel Much Like Ridin'"

Today, Gancey Girlfriend and I drive the three or four hours out to her hometown for Thanksgiving and then back to the Chicago area to see Dr. Ken's family (the middle-nephew has pneumonia, and he's in the hospital, so hopefully he'll be okay). On the drives, while Gancey Girlfriend works on her thesis, I was thinking of listening to all the best albums by Beck, since I just downloaded his entire catalog very illegally.

I've always wanted to do a long road trip and listen to one artist in chronological order, like all the way across the states playing my entire Pink Floyd collection.

How about you, Seven Readers, have you ever done that, and if you did, which artist would you bump in your ride? If you're not a music person, then perhaps an author's stuff on books on tapes or some podcasts, perhaps?

Don't You Hate It When Your "Ant" Comes to Visit?

My kitchen has ants. It was only a matter of time with five dudes at a time living in this joint for centuries, but even if it was all too predictable, it's still disgusting, unnerving, and annoying.

My one roomy is going to buy something that worked when she had ants in her car (huh?): you leave this shit out, the ants gather it up thinking it's food, bring it back to their nest, and they all kick the bucket. I love that concept because only one or two come out at a time, so we need to infiltrate somehow, and this is the only way. We need an ant on the inside . . .

I got thinking about this one ant who brings back this bad, bad shit. Maybe you have been to a party, brought some taco dip you left in your car an hour or so too long and some people got the shits. That's a dick move, but did everyone die? Did thousands of ants (people, whatever. I'm confusing myself) die??? That ant has to feel like a real bone head - just before he bites it.

Taco Martial Arts Theater

t1. I'm booking the theater time for my second play. I've put this thing off long enough. I now have my director, who is a good friend who I can trust, and he is excited to work with me again, having been one of the lead actors in the first one. We're going to meet every week to figure out what it is these characters want, and what should happen to them. That's the part where I always need help, and once I'm there, the dialog comes out beautifully, so I'm excited to get to that point again. Look to be in Chicago in Early October of next year, or whenever we decide to do it. I'll let you know in the next couple of weeks.

2. I've been sick for a few days, and I've been watching way, way too much mixed martial arts. I have even been researching stuff like muay thai and all kinds of styles of kneeing people in the face that I, personally, will never employ. It's the most interested I've been in sports since the 1990's when the Chicago Bulls were good and those sporadic season when the Chicago Cubs get my hopes up before remembering that they suck and showing their true colors: red, white, blue, and suck.

3. I have plans to go to my mom and dad's place for taco night, and I just can't cancel due to illness because I keep hearing this in my head: "Son, you've made a mockery of taco night." That was an article from The Onion, the snarky, Madison, Wisconsin based phony story publication, and I just can't bail on my folks and live up to that article. So, time to suck it up . . .

That Ottoman Got Worked!

I know this Youtube video is super old, but these stupid ottoman fuckers just popped in my head.

I like the first guy, Relentless, telling us that the other four are in the back getting ready, but he's impatient; he just has to start tappin' that ottoman ass!

Next, it's "your boy X2C" (pronounced ecstasy, somehow), and he is about to show us what he's got, while Relentless dismounts the thoroughly humped ottoman, taking his shirt off not so smoothly as it catches on his head, and then he rolls his belly in-and-out like Wayne in Waynes World. That's frickin' hot!

Then comes the fella with my favorite name, Pipelayer, who can't wait to get a piece of that sweet ottoman ass, at which time Relentless exits stage left, and X2C sits on his rear end, awkwardly making air butterflies with his legs and pelvis. What I like about Pipelayer is he's not conventional and doesn't follow trends; notice how he humps in the opposite direction of the other boys. So, would that be the ottoman's mouth?

And along comes Pressure, who has a solo act just after Pipelayer falls off the fornicated furniture and leaves, and X2C clumsily crawls out of frame.

Satisfaktion has no speech at all - just states his name and gets to humpin, while Pressure squats down before the three foot mirror to watch himself do some crouching undulating.

Of course, we then have a grand finale' curtain call, with all our Ottoman humpers coming out at once! At this point, it's getting a little crowded, strange, and perhaps a little gay. Okay, a lot gay. Relentless goes right after the door, gyrating upon it while rubbing his own face, then grabbing the door knob and the handle on the linen closet and humping some serious air. They all have an air orgy together and casually walk off, leaving us feeling . . . I'm not sure what.

Have a look and let me know what you think. As always, make sure you turn off the music player along the left side of the blog before hitting play. Enjoy. Give my best to Pipelayer.



So, your thoughts?

"There he is!"

The best things to say when you don't know someone's name and they seem to know yours are . . .

"What's up?!"

"Hey, buddy!"

"Hey, big guy!"

"Hey there, chief!"

"Good to see you!"

Any of those will do, but when you work with kids like I do, and every damn kid seems to know Dr. Ken's name, you do like this:

Kid: Hi, Dr. Kenneth Noisewater!
Dr. Ken: There he is!

The expression "There he is!" implies that you have been looking for him or just looking forward to seeing him, making the guy feel special, even though usually you're pretty sure you've never met him. It does wonders, especially if you deliver it with a smile and some enthusiasm.

What's your standby phrase when you don't know who in the heck someone is?

West Rules

Yesterday, while having lunch at a McDonalds on the West Side of Chicago, I heard a man say loudly in front of customers, "I left my mufuckin' jacket in the car." I thought to myself, maybe this guy doesn't work here. He couldn't possibly use the MF word so blatantly like that and be on the clock, but yes, then I saw him change a liner on a garbage can continuing to pepper the conversation he was having with his friend with sporadic expletives.

I learned this is okay on the West Side, and you know what else is a-okay by me in that part of town or any other? Hushpuppies dipped in tarter sauce. Sound gross? I say judge not until you've dipped one of those "mufuckas."

Excuses, Excuses

It only happens around two or three times per jog, but I don't like people passing me up when I'm running; I immediately get tired and deflated, so I make up excuses to make me feel better about myself. Like this . . .

"God bless! I feel like a champ. Legs are holding up well and -

(Runner whizzes by Dr. Ken)

oh shit, look at this guy flying by me. But, you know, he's nose-to-toes in spandex, so he doesn't count cause he's all hardcore and stuff, so I'm good. I guess . . . except for this little pebble in my shoe. How is it that they start to feel like boulders after a while . . .

(yet another jogger passes him up)

"Son of a . . . who does this guy think he is? Oh, but wait. I saw this same fucker walking a little ways back, so he must be doing some sort of stop-start circuit training or cross training or what-have-you. What is the difference between circuit and cross training anyhow? Oh well, I still feel all right, except I'm getting a little chafing action on my inner thigh. Is that because I have fat thighs or something? I don't think I do. Maybe I need to lube up with Vaseline down there before I . . .

(Again, another runner blows by him)

"- oh, what the hell! And this is a woman! And she's old. Older than baseball, this one! This is humiliating. But . . . If she's old, odds are she's been running a long time. Experience goes a long way in the running game, I'm told."

How's about you, Seven Readers? Does anyone use any positive/negative self-talk to get you through the day? ?

Grapples

I came across Grapples today at the supermarket, and I just had to buy them. They're part apple, part grape. Turns out they're just less crisp than apples with a mild grape flavor. They're not bad, but I'd much rather have an apple, like a Granny Smith. Who the heck was she anyway? Who cares? This guy. Just looked it up, and it's named after some lady who created them in Australia in the 1800's.

Even if Grapples are less than spectacular, I think the name Grapple kicks so much ass, that I have no regrets buying Grapples.

Just say it a few times. "Grapple, Grapple, Grapple."

The homepage has a link where you can become a fan of them on Facebook. Who the F would do that? This guy.

This (mostly) every day posting is causing an all time low in material . .

Let's Pet Puppies!

There's a shop on Ashland and Roscoe in Chicago called Let's Pet Puppies in which patrons walk in the door, sanitize their hands, and take all kinds of puppies out of their cages and pet the shit out of them. It's good in that you can cheer yourself up on a bad day by holding all kinds of adorable little puppies of various breeds, but bad because you feel like an asshole when you have to put them back in their little two by three cages. Today, Gancey Girfriend and I petted Multipoos (Multese and poodle mix) and Shih Poo (Shitzu and poodle mixes), and they were God damned cute as fuck.


(Shih Poo)


(Multipoo)

How about you, Seven Readers? At which shop do you like to window shop with no intention of buying a darned thing?

Dr. Kenneth "The Gancer" Noisewater began his embarrassing Mixed Martial Arts "career" with a humiliating defeat in which, after being on the receiving end of a series of hammer fists in a ground-in-pound, actually said in his post-fight interview something no one calling himself a "fighter" should say: "I want my mommy." He didn't fare much better in his second bout where he was submitted by a rear naked choke after going in for an ill-advised "noogie." In his third and final fight, the doctor was again submitted, this time by a guillotine, after he tried to climb out of the cage, later claiming that it was not an act of cowardice, but instead an attempt to win because he thought it was a "Steel Cage Match, you know, like Hulk Hogan and shit."

I Looked Inside My Left Testicle Yesterday . . .

. . . and it was just as gross-looking as you might think. The experience was made even weirder by the goofiest x-ray-tech-guy of all time. So, I'm lying on the bed thing with my pants around my ankles, he's to the left of me, rubbing the x-ray thing on my bean bag, and his laptop thing with the monitor showing the inside of my junk is over my left shoulder. At one point, he is struggling to get the right grip on one nut with both hands, so he asks me to pinch my testicle so that he could hit the button on the keyboard to freeze a picture. Is that normal? Then, he asks me to hit the freeze button while he does what he has to do with my business, and it wasn't easy because I had to reach back and hit it with my pinky, with my bare finger, the one that was touching my balls moments ago. Is that sanitary?


I felt in good hands with the doctor, but this x-ray guy has me all nervous and stuff. All signs are pointing to the lump being harmless, but I won't know for sure for another week or two. I wish I didn't have to have such a hands-on x-ray experience because now I keep seeing that evil, evil lump in my mind, all white and cancery . . .

*That pic is not the inside of my testicle, but it's someone's, according to Google Images.

Top 5 Coolest Kids in TV and Film History

Here's a link to an article I published over at Starpulse with that name: Link

Comment here, comment there, but comment in both places and we'll be the best of friends.

Adult Days Off

What I'm Doing on My Day Off Today:

Go downtown to the apple store to exchange my broken ipod, parking my car for no less than 15 bucks.

Go to the doctor to get blood tests (so I can't eat all day on my day off)

Go to the bank to cash three checks that all together don't even add up to fifty bucks

Do work for my job because I still have a very busy Thursday and Friday left in this week.

What I did with a day off as a 15-years-old

Play Sega and Nintendo for around 6 hours to the sounds of thrash metal like Anthrax and Pantera.

Wander into the kitchen a few dozen time through out the day, eating Doritos, homemade cookies, and cans of non-diet soda, and never get fat.

Meet my neighbor out front and video tape ourselves making diving football catches into a big pile of leaves, with dirty leaves going down my shirt, making me itch, and I won't even shower before going to bed.

Throw the Frisbee for the dog out back. She will catch 6 out of 13 throws, bringing it back to me 4 out of 13.

You tell me which is a better way to spend your Veteran's Day.

The Best Thing To Say When You're Giving a Cat Treats in the Morning

When I leave for work every morning, part of my routine was feeding the cat. Lately, Gancey Girlfriend has started doing it sometimes, so on those days, I just don't know what to tell Punk Ass (that's one of the cat's names) when she runs into the kitchen and jumps onto the counter looking at me all cute like I'm going to open up a can of wet food and plop it into a bowl for her. Instead, I've opted for hooking her up with some treats, which I sprinkle onto the granite for her. Yesterday morning, I had more sleep than I'm used to, was feeling a little giddy as a result, so I poured them out all gangster like I was at a titty bar (kitty bar?), saying "make it rain!"