First Adult Movie Experience Podcast: Part 3 of 3

In the final installment, Southie tells the story of the first adult film he ever saw.  He was in his Uncle's basement and had a pretty traumatic experience.  It sounds awful when you say it like that, but it's not what you think.

Songs used in the background on this podcast:

1. "The Stroke" by Billy Squire
2. "All By Myself" by Eric Carmen
3. "Let Me Put My Love Into" by AC/DC

Go ahead and give it a play or a download.  Let us know what you think, and if you haven't already, share with us the story of your first time watching a dirty movie as a kid.

Foot in the Mouth Moment #3,011

I was at a holiday party recently in which the music was terrible.  This wouldn't usually bother me that much (okay, it always bothers me), but I know the host had good music but was not allowed to play his own music - his wife's music was dominating.  Then he was told to play music in the kitchen, and I'm thinking, "Yes!  My boy's music will be in the kitchen, so I'll just hang out in there.  That's where the booze is anyway."  Nope.  She came in there later and switched that to her music too.

Just when I was settling in with some decent scotch and starting to get a warm buzz on a cold evening, and just when I'm buzzed up enough not to care too much about the music, I suddenly hear this weird whimsical techno crappola stuff kick in that just couldn't be ignored.  An instant record-scratcher track where everyone stops and says, "Huh???"

That's when I blurted out the following:

What in the hell is this shit?  It sounds like what the Teletubbies play at one of their cocaine parties.  

Then ladyfriend came over by my side to whisper to me that the song was something that a guest at the party made with his DJ'ing, and he was three feet away from me when I loudly delivered that comment.  Oops.

In my defense, if you heard the song and my description, you would have congratulated me on instantaneously deducing exactly what it sounded like.

How about you, seven readers?  Put a foot in your mouth lately?

Early Morning Riser

I had a long day today.  Stressful and emotional.  I stopped off for a beer by myself at a good bar by my apartment.  It's worth the extra few blocks because it's awesome.  Talking about Journey Atari games got me engrossed with some of the regulars, and as some country music played, I got excited to go home and listen to "Bustin' Out" on vinyl by Pure Prarie League.  I bought this record years ago only because "Amy" is on it, but it is chocked full of awesome southern rock.  And I bought it for $0.49.  Yes.  Less than fifty cents.

I just read that paragraph and saw that I was excited to go home.  Wow.  Officially a dork.

Kim Coulter wrote her name in some permanent marker across the front of the cover of the LP.  Don't you ever want to know who these people are?  I imagine tons of people have sold this record for a host of reasons, but the way I operate is I need to know who owned THIS VERY COPY.

I'm a weird fan of rock music.  The kind that wants to know who listened to this album and where.  And which drugs were consumed.  And did Kim have any feelings about having to part with this record, or was it Kim's daughter who sold it?  And is Kim dead?  Did Kim ever really dig this record?  I mean, she cared enough to write her name on it . . .

Anyone else think at along these lines, or am I totally a nut.  I am too nuts to be alone right now, right?  Maybe I should just belly up to the bar again and stop being a nut.

First Dirty Movie Part 2: A Dangerous Encounter

This is the second of three stories in which three dudes sat around and told the stories about the first porno movie they ever saw as a kid.  In Dangerous' first time joining a Gancer podcast, he does an excellent job talking about the times he and his friends rode theirs bikes over to his neighbor Jimmy's house to watch a porno flick and the lengths they had to go to keep Jimmy's dad from figuring out.

Hope you enjoy.  Have a listen or download it by clicking the options at the top, and let us know what you think.

The songs in the background of this podcast are the "Ding Dong Song" by Gunther and "Sex Machine" by Sly and the Family Stone, and the picture below is actually the cover of the infamous movie in Mr. Dangerous' past!

First Dirty Movie Podcast: Part 1 of 3

In the latest podcast here at The Gancer, Dr. Kenneth Noisewater and his good friends Southie and Dangerous tell the stories about the first pornographic film they ever saw.  It is our contention that right or wrong, no man will forget their first.

In part one of the three part series, Dr. Ken discusses the film he saw as a youngster - a film with a surprisingly decent plot, a dirty scene with a football as a prop, and a break in that leads to a three way as punishment for the would be burglar.

Ken was rather horrified by his first adult film viewing, and you will surprised at how he exacted his revenge upon that lascivious VHS.

Hit play, enjoy, and please share in the comments what you think about it - or share your first experience.

I'm doing in a podcast today with some friends.  The topic is the first pornographic movie we ever saw.

What about you, readers?  Where did you find/buy it?  How old were you?  Do you remember the name of it?  Were you turned on or totally horrified (like me)?

Stanky Booty Ass

The lady and I got aboard a train to go downtown for Christmas shopping, and the second we poked our heads in we smelled the foul stench of a thousand dirty assholes.  It was rough.  I was really tired that morning and needed my coffee badly, but those dookie fumes surely had already seeped into my cup.  I will take sleepiness over poop java every time.

A Black couple stepped on at the next stop, and while his girlfriend took an air freshener out of her purse and sprayed away liberally, he had the following to say:

"Aww hell naw!  Who's the smelly-ass muthafucka on here?  I don't care if it was Obama himself smelling like that, I'll smack you in the head with some soap, with yo' stanky booty ass."

He was actually scanning around the room and making eye contact with all the passengers, hoping to find the culprit.  The smell really angered him.   I like his idea of executing some poetic justice on the guy by braining him with soap, and while "stanky booty ass" doesn't seem to make much sense, seeing as booty and ass mean exactly the same thing, "self" in this sense means more like "himself," if that makes sense.  It was worded perfectly.

And my coffee flavor was instantaneously changed to Stanky Booty Ass. 

Know Your Audience

I woke up from a nap today and checked my Facebook.  I don't recommend this practice because we're not always thinking clearly in a state such as this.  The first update I saw was from a local newspaper who was outraged that a bar, one which I have been to tons of times, posted a special on their giant sign outside the bar for everyone to see: "Remember Pearl Harbor With Bombs and Kamikazes!"  Call me a dumb ass, but my gut reaction was to laugh my ass off.  Now if you haven't already deemed me an idiot, the next thing I did was respond saying that people need to lighten up.

Then I realized that I could probably lose my job or something, so I deleted it.

It's good to have sick people around to make jokes with, and that's when it's time to do stuff like that.  When you own a business, yeah, don't make a joke like that plastered on your building.  As a matter of fact, don't say anything that anyone can ever be offended by.   However, if I were drinking in that bar (again, I have a lot), and if the bartender, knowing his audience, proposed honoring the day with those shots, I would have gladly drank them and likely paid for them.  And certainly laughed.

It's just a matter of knowing your audience.

Caution: Swim At Your Own Risk

Well, another blog about a dream, but I'll make it brief and hopefully funny.  In last night's dream, my girlfriend and I had this fabulous house up in the hills somewhere, overlooking the ocean.  The pool out back was great because it had a spectacular view behind it, however, swimming in the pool were around four giant rats like the one in The Princess Bride, all no less than the size of a cocker spaniel, and one 10-foot-long albino alligator.  The GF was walking past the pool on her way back into the house, and the 'bino alligator took a snap at her ankle, narrowly missing her.  Why none of these critters ever got out of the pool, I don't know.  They just circled around in a frenzy, biting one another.

"Come on in!  The water's warm!"

In the dream I actually said this, and keep in mind that it's a small pool where you could see all the way to the bottom and there are extremely dangerous animals that are very easy to spot in there:

"We really need to remind guests not to go into the pool."

The GF and I came home drunk on Friday night, and we both wanted to watch a movie.  She popped in "Aladdin," which wouldn't have been my vote, but I'm glad I watched it again because it's still funny, the songs are good, and overall it just holds up well.  Robin Williams could probably have done the performance with 10 less impressions of celebrities that have nothing to do with anything, but beyond that, it's a good time.  The two of us actually sang all the songs loudly, so sorry neighbors.  We actually went into an impromptu a capella "Little Mermaid" song quite loudly, so I'm even more sorry about that.  But yeah, we nailed it.

Also, I have a confession: Back in high school, I was insanely jealous of Aladdin.  Why, you may ask?

Great minds dress alike.

1. He Has a Pet Monkey.  I have always wanted a pet monkey.  Yes, I know that they don't usually make good pets, and sometimes they rip your arm out of its socket or eat all the flesh off of your face, but they're just so darned cute.  Mine would for sure wear the little outfit like Abu, and he would definitely be perched up on my shoulder all the time, turning back flips every now and again, maybe right when I get off a good one-liner, just before I make a dramatic exit . . .



2. He Has a Hot, Exotic-looking Girlfriend With a Perfect (If Not Impossible) Body, and Giant Pretty Eyes.  And she's rich and doesn't dig rich guys.  Back in high school when I was watching this movie, she didn't really need to be any of these things.  Simply being not animated, having a pulse, and willing to sleep with a dork like me would have worked out great.

I don't remember her wearing this

3. The Son of a Bitch Has His Own Flying Carpet.*  Whenever I'm flying through my own powers in a dream, it's the coolest thing ever, and there is this feeling of complete control.  I would say I have had this dream around three times, and it's always incredible.  I'm pissed when I wake up because I know the dream is over and I can't really fly.  The ability to fly would be outstanding.  I could bypass a traffic jam, and then just wrap the carpet around my neck like a scarf and head into my business meting (or more likely the bar).  That or I would stuff it in a brief case so that I look important.  Any way you slice it, I want one of those things.

Okay.  I'm still jealous of that punk.  That street rat . . .

----------------------------------------------------------------------

How about you, readers?  You ever get jealous of a cartoon?  Roger Rabbit also comes to mind.  I was always funny as a kid but couldn't seem to land the giant chested songstress type . . . 

*You will notice that having the magic lamp is not on the list.  I have just seen too many problems with the whole wish thing in all the movies.  He can keep it.  

Sporty Texts. The Only Way To Go These Days

Around the time I started this blog, my best friends and I were out three nights a week doing three things:

1. Boozing

2. Trying to meet women

3. Doing stupid stuff

Even if we usually only accomplished numbers one and three on the list, those were some of the best days of my life and they were the best friends I'll ever have.

Those particular friends have since: 

1. Got married

2. Had kids

3. Moved to the suburbs

I have done zero of those things, which has caused us to not see each other nearly as much, but we still talk just about every day through text messages, usually about sports.  Sometimes a Chicago Bears game will be going on and the four of us will exchange 50 texts, which is pretty much the text rate of most middle school girls in America.  

These conversations are important because with them having babies and being in the burbs and all, it's not like they're out at the bar with me every weekend - so this my only means of staying in touch and remembering how funny these guys are and why they're my best friends.

For example:

James Douglas Morrison knew I was watching the Bulls game on tape when I got home from work, so he said:

JDM: Watch out for a giant boob chick in a Bulls jersey in the crowd who is undoubtably a stripper.  She's right after the lady who looks like the Kool Aid Man and just before the creepy Robert Englund guy with his arm around a kid.  

Now, without JDM, I would have fast forwarded through those crowd shots.  With him, I laughed my ass off at his dead on descriptions of these weirdos, and it's like we were watching the game together.  

How the hell did people stay in touch before text?  Christmas cards?  Phone calls?  Yuck.  I don't want to even think about it.  This is the only way to be friends with anyone.  I'm convinced.

Anyone have people they text with more than anyone else and you make each other laugh out loud all the time?

Old Friends

Steve parked his car on Chicago's northwest side and went into a neighborhood coffee shop with only one customer inside.  He greeted his friend, Roman, the lone customer who has many ties to the Polish mob, and the two sat at a table by the window to discuss the business at hand.

Steve: I appreciate you meeting me at short notice.  I know it's been a long time, but I remember when we worked together way back when, you said you knew a lot of . . . people who could . . . get things done.  

Roman: Oh yes.  (he replied in a thick Polish accent as he sipped from his espresso).  I can get a boot off of your car in less than two minutes.  I can get you a new identity in a couple days time.  And Mr. Roman could get you a very good-looking and convincing transsexual.  

Steve: Yeah, those three I don't need right now, especially that last one, but (looks around the empty room), illegal stuff is kind of the way I need to go with this one.  

Roman: No problem.  Anything for an old friend.  Anything within reason, that is.    

Steve: Well, here it is: I know a kid who got molested, and I just worry that with the way the investigation is going . . . The kid changed his story, and he didn't come forward for a long time, so there really isn't a lot of physical evidence.  And this guy might walk.

Roman: Oh no.  He won't walk.  (now angry) We can have both this guy's legs broken in no time.  I can do this one myself if you want.  Would be my pleasure.  I hate the perverts.  

Steve: No, by "walk," I mean that he might not do any jail time.  

Roman: I see.  And you want to make this guy dead, is that it?  

Steve: No.  Just that he doesn't get away scot-free.  What are you thinking?

Roman: (Softly whispering) What do you say we have this man raped real good.  

Steve: Oh God, no!  . . . Wait, you can do  that?

Roman: No, not me, but I have people raped all the time.  Well, not all the time, but I can get this done for you.  Yes.  No problem.   

Steve: Maybe I don't want to know this, but how do you know rapists, and how can you work with people like that, if you don't mind me asking?

Roman: You must understand, I know a lot of men who have done time, and for them raping isn't as big of a deal as it is to you and I.  And what we do in a case like this is simply tell our rapist that this man, this pervert, we simply tell Ulises that he raped a Latin Kings' son, and that's pretty standard practice amongst the Kings to have a man like that raped.

Steve: Whoah.  Stop right there.  I don't want to know anybody's names.  Hell, I'm not even sure I can go through with this.  

Roman: Sure you can.  This pervert will have the raping of a lifetime (now angry.  but a long pause).  Then again, he might be into rape.  You think?

Steve: I doubt it.  

Roman: Yes, but you never know with these pervert types.  So maybe we work in a little beating and torture into the mix, what do you think?

Steve: Okay, so if I'm understanding you fully, just in case the rape is somewhat pleasurable for him, you throw in a little torture?  Like what?

Roman: Well, I would let Ulis- (Stops himself) or whoever would be doing the rape, use his own discretion to make it particularly torturous and painful, like maybe cram a chair leg into his ass (demonstrates with a nearby chair, stabbing the leg into the air) or whatever's handy, you know (calmly sits back down and takes another sip of espresso).

Steve: (starts to get up) Jeez, that could kill the guy, couldn't it?  Like, he could bleed to death if he were stabbed right with a chair like that.  Okay, yeah, I really can't go through with this.  I'll just trust that the authorities will reach the right verdict and then he will get a raping in prison that wasn't authorized by you or I, or Ulises, who I hope I never meet by the way.  Can we just forget I ever came in here?

Roman: Sure.  It's your choice.  But stay a while.  We should catch up.  Talk about stuff that isn't illegal.  Roman doesn't only do illegal stuff.  For instance, these cuff links, I made them (Roman rolls up the left sleeve of his sport coat to reveal a dragon fly cuff link).  You see?  Dragon fly.  

Steve: That's no bad. (Steve puts his head in his hands and takes some deep breaths).

Roman: Hey.  What's wrong?  (puts his hand on Steve's arm) Don't worry about it, Steve.  The revenge and that sort of thing is not for everyone, after all.  You're a good guy.  Finish your coffee.  

Steve and Roman enjoyed another half hour of conversation free of any talk of illegal activities, and no contract of any kind was made - just old friends catching up.  And Ulises was never contacted as a result of their meeting.  

I was watching the Chicago Bulls game the other night and having a few IPA's, and longtime play-by-play man, Marv Albert, was saying how someone was trying to live down some bad decisions he made.  This prompted me to yell at the television, "Oh, shut up, Marv!  You were wearing crotchless panties, bit a woman's ass, reportedly forced anal upon a woman, and your toupee fell off.  We haven't forgotten that."

"Panties!  Yes!"

And it's true.  That's what is tough about being a celebrity.  If I paraded around in some crotchless panties, which no man looks good in (even me), I could still pack up and leave town and no one would know I dangled my junk out of a black lacy thong (not that I have a pair picked out).  We all have things we like to do in the sack, but we will never forget what Marv is into because we see him on TV every few nights describing slam dunks to us, and as hard as we try not to, we imagine that under the table he is still wearing those unsightly undergarments.

How about you, readers?  Who are some celebrities who have done something you'll never be able to forget when you see them?

Lies the 80's Taught Us About Adoption

Anyone ever notice that the 1980's had a lot of television shows built around rich white men swooping down from their high rises to rescue lowly orphans and whisk them away to a lap of luxury?  Maybe it was the importance placed on wealth and amassing material possessions that bled into pop culture from the Regan era.  Certainly it was a time where the gap between the haves and the have nots grew wider than ever, and it was definitely cooler to be one of the haves and be on "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" than it was to be on "COPS," for instance.  But the sit coms of the day gave kids a glimmer of hope that we could be saved from our shitty, broke-ass lives by those good-doing rich, white business men.  Truth be told, aristocrats of that era wanted all kinds of things, be it yachts, the finest champaign, sports cars, and much younger women - but rarely did they seek out their very own poor, orphan Black children.  If you knew guys like that at the time or even today, that's not something they coveted, but the 1980's TV shows would have you convinced otherwise . . .

Phillip Drummond was one such saintly tycoon who took in inner city siblings, Arnold and Willis, into his condo, and that seemed to work out great on TV's Diff'rent Strokes.  Arnold was a wise-cracking kid with adorable big cheeks and a growth defect so he stayed cute for a lot of seasons.  In real life, there are families that want to adopt inner city kids, but usually only babies, and very rarely are bachelor males doing that deed.  Phillip was a special guy.  In reality, if he undertook this endeavor without the proper care, his kids may have turned out like their actor counterparts did in real life: Willis would have a drug problem, Phillip's birth daughter would have had an even bigger drug problem and rob a video store, and Arnold would take a job as a mall cop and punch a woman in the face, or whatever.  It seems to me that Phil just got bored easily and made rash decisions that would greatly impact his family, the least of which would be exemplified by how rapidly he went through maids.

"Watchu' mean I can't stay in the penthouse?"

Punky Brewster's father abandoned her, and then her mother snuck away from her at a Chicago shopping center, which left Punky to fend for herself in an abandoned apartment where she would be found by Henry, a photographer.  Now, that story would likely have a more grim ending with some really awful photographic evidence, but in this case Henry is a very kind old man who takes Punky in to give her a better life.  My question is why didn't Punky ask anyone at the shopping center for help?  Nope, instead she immediately just fended for herself and hunkered down in an abandoned apartment.  The actress who portrayed Punky, Solei Moon Frye developed gigantic boobs and eventually opted for a breast reduction.  This has nothing to do with anything at all, or does it?  She abandoned those giant hooters like her mom abandoned her at that Chicago shopping center?  No, it is not on topic at all, and I just found a way to talk about boobs.  Let's just move on to . . .

I bet you can guess which one is Punky (pre reduction)

. . . Webster.  This plucky youngster was the son of a professional football player who pawned his son off on his teammate, offensive lineman George Papadapolis.  Webster suddenly lived with a couple of well-to-do socialites with a cool secret passageway where you could sneak out of your bedroom and out of the grandfather clock downstairs if you needed to make a super sneaky escape of some kind.  Webster also had a growth deficiency and was even smaller than Arnold.  It seems to me that if you're bouncing around foster homes as a child, your chances of getting a foster home were greatly improved if you had a rare condition to never look older than 10-years-old.  That affliction certainly helped Emmanuel Lewis remain friends with Michael Jackson all those years when you think about it . . .

Awwww.  He's perched up there like a little parrot!  

The absolute biggest fairy tale if you were child of the 1980's was the life of Ricky Stratton on Silver Spoons, the boy who meets his father for the first time only to find that he is a super rich toy designer with a house full of video games and a toy train that takes you all over the house.  There was no one on television I was more jealous of than that damn Ricky Stratton.  I wanted everything he had, even the obnoxious duck phone that would quack incessantly instead of ring.  But even as a kid I didn't like the idea of the remote control door that they would pop open without checking to see if it was a murderous rapist who would tie them up, torture them, and play all their video games.  Other than the poorly conceived remote door, I wanted it all.  That lucky bastard.  And all the girls in my class swooned over Rick, and that only further fueled my jealousy.

"Yee haw!  All aboard to Awesome Town!  We got it all, Ricky!  Screw those broke losers!"

The 1980's made it look like taking in orphan children was no harder than rescuing a dog from the local shelter.  The harsh reality is that almost never have broke orphans been saved by random acts of kindness from rich people, but the 1980's sit coms tried to keep that glimmer of hope in the back of our minds.  Hell, I wanted to be "rescued" into that awesome house in "Silver Spoons," and I didn't even need saving because I had a middle class family that loved and cared for me.  The 80's made kids want stuff they didn't need just as it convinced the adults of this.  The poor inner city kids and orphans had just as tough of life as they do now, but being plucked out of the ghettos and orphanages and directly into mansions was never a realistic option.  The truth is the real life Arnolds and Websters of the world grew up poor, hungry, and really, really short.      

"The 40-Year-Old Freshman," "Treading Death," and an Awfully Mean Coach

I had this dream that I was a college water polo coach, which is weird because I know almost nothing about water polo other than it's like team hand ball in a pool and it's hard to tread water for that long.  

What's also odd is that I had two celebrities on the team: Actor, writer, and funny-man Seth Rogen and Lars Ulrich, the drummer for the most successful metal band of all time, Metallica.  Perhaps they were going back to college and still had eligibility to play, even if they're old and out of shape, respectively?

It was a rag tag group of water polo players to say the least.  

"Back off me, toots.  I got a big game in the morning."

I really needed Seth in an upcoming match to be my outside wing offensive guy, or whatever, but he made a conscious choice to travel with the basketball team instead because he felt he needed to cheer them on.  This made me so mad that I was throwing projectiles at him at the next practice, and my violent tirade was filmed and aired on the local news, which probably would have gotten me fired if the dream continued much longer.  

"I'm the goalie because I'm always in charge even if I'm not all that good."

Lars was a goalie with some pretty quick reaction time and instincts, but what was bothering me was how short he was.  He couldn't even reach the cross bar to stop a high shot, and to be honest, I have no idea if it's an asset or not to have a tall/long armed goalie in water polo or not.  In the dream it was infuriating to have him in there, and I was whipping high shots at him over-and-over to demonstrate this.

I was a mean coach.  

What do you think, guys?  Throw Will Ferrell in here and we got ourselves a crappy sports comedy?  Or am I just totally nuts for having dreams like this one?

This Has To Be One of My Best Accidental Texts Ever

So, this text just went out to Mrs. Noisewater:

"Have I told you lately how proud vCard am of you?"

As you may know, a V-Card is something you cash in when you lose your virginity, but it had nothing to do with what I was trying to text her tonight.  Truth be told, I just got my first smart phone after years of whipping open my flip phone like Captain Kirk all these years.  And I'm not to accurate with it, as you may see.

Still, did protective text really try to sneak a V-Card into this conversation?  That is unbelievable.  

Mrs. Noisewater's response?

"No.  You've never told me how proud you are of my V-Card."

Writer's Bars

Mrs. Noisewater and I were at a book sale outside of a church on Sunday, and I picked up a book called "The Chicago Way" about a private detective in Chicago.  As it turns out, the character in the story drinks too much at too many bars - just like me!   

At one point he references Kelly's Pub.  Hey, I've been there!  The managers there love heavy metal and were cranking up some Diamond Head for me the last time I was in there.  They also sold my buddy, Night Train, a rogue tall boy of Coors Light that he spotted in the fridge and no one working there had any idea how it got there . . .

Another time the main character winds up ordering a Guinness at Cullens.  I know that place too.  For whatever reason, it was the best bar to go to on a Sunday night if you happened to have that Monday off, decided to just take it off, or simply wanted to drink like an animal on a Sunday.  My partner in crime back then always seemed to get lucky there on a Sunday, but it just wasn't a good home game to me.  He would actually get laid totally randomly. late afternoon on a Sunday, and I had to tip my cap to him.

Later the author makes mention of The Hidden Shamrock.  Come on!  That's just down the street from me, and I have been there dozens of times.  The bartender in the story was a full blown Irish gal with the accent and everything, but when I was going there regularly it was an Irish American red-head.  We had a thing one night (on a Sunday!) but it turns out she was just using me while she was on a break from her boyfriend.  But, whatever, us boys don't get as upset about being used because it's like, hey, I got laid, right?  We're pretty simple beings when you come right down to it . . . 

Darth VS Jody On a Bookshelf Far, Far Away . . .

I have some weird habits.  The kind where if I don't do them then my whole world might spiral into ruin.  One such habit is every so often, when my life is looking not-so-good, slightly adjusting the Jody Davis and Darth Vader figurines on my book shelf could alter my destiny.  These two have been in an epic duel for around 10 years, Darth with his light saber and Jody with his catchers mitt.  Hardly seems fair, right?  The saber could slice through bone like butter without even swinging very hard, while the mitt could stop a fastball but your hand will still probably sting a little.  What's more, Darth is an intergalactic tyrant with the galaxy at his fingertips, and meanwhile Jody Davis is a lifetime .245 catcher for a team that loses most of their games, the Chicago Cubs.  

I couldn't rotate this picture, but to hell with it.  I like it better like this because with Darth on top, Jody is getting dominated even more.  He is the power bottom (of the division).

If you'll notice in the first picture, Darth has his light saber ready to slice off Mr. Davis' head.  This is when life has me by the balls and it looks like there is no hope.  

"The Cubs join the Empire?  Never!!!!"

But not so fast!  Jody has slipped his glove to the inside, blocking Darth!  This ever so slight of an adjustment can be made on any given day and everything can turn around for me.  And I actually believe this can help matters.

Anyone else do stuff like this or am I just completely nuts?

Carpool Humping Lane

Once again I long awaited for inspiration to sit down and write another post, and this time my muse was an unattractive couple having sex while driving down the Eisenhower Expressway in my home town of Chicago.

I put off posting about this so long that A) everyone has probably already seen it and made fun of it before me by now and B) Many of the videos have been deleted.  After searching for it for a few minutes with no luck, I remembered that it was an old friend of mine who first turned me onto it on Facebook and that link still worked.  Thank you, old friend, for sharing this dangerous and hilarious sex act caught on film!

Now, let's begin the commentary as only Dr. Ken can . . .

0:10 - Despite the fact that the woman in the passenger seat is sure that she's "totally got it" with the video camera on her phone, the woman driving (WD) is really doubting that she does.

0:20 - Passenger side woman (PSW) is starting to think they have filmed enough evidence of this and is fairly sure the fornicators in the car a mere 7 feet away have noticed that they are becoming unsuspecting porn stars.  "No no," says WD.  "It's called safety."  Just what does she mean by that?  "Is that his hand or his foot?"  I thought the same thing, and if he is having sex while driving with his foot, that is highly unsafe, unless he is a professional stunt driver and porn actor.  However, if she is worried about the well-being of her fellow motorists, wouldn't she just alert the authorities rather than make 7 or 8 passes to film them?  I'm starting to think WD is really getting off on the whole moving-car-sex-thing . . .

0:30 - "I want to get her bouncing again.  She's just laying on him."  Yup.  She's a perv.  I was half expecting her to yell some more directions at them and perhaps suggest some new positions.  PSW says she is looking away from them and plans to just watch her video later, but WD is quite obviously gawking at them and speeding up and slowing down to go by them so many times that eventually it looks as if the dude is waving at them while he screws.  A baller move, if you ask me.

0:50 - "Angle it down, you're getting all sky," the director tells her camera person, at which point PSW says I'm done and turns off her phone.  I would agree that she has amassed quite enough footage and has had enough bossing from her half-assed director.  WD would have filmed all day if she had the means.  I sort of think she was hoping they would crash, and she would have the world's best snuff film - she seems just that sick to me.
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Here are my thoughts on this whole thing: Sure, when this couple started humping one another in broad daylight on the highway, they opened themselves up to other people on the road watching and perhaps video taping.  However, they didn't need to be hounded like this.  Just have a laugh (maybe a quick video) and be on your way.  WD was hell bent on filming this thing from the foreplay all the way to the money shot all over the dashboard, and maybe even the clean up.

Meanwhile in the other lane, I can't at all blame the guy for having a shag while driving.  How can you pass that up?  But my man needed to do a better job at distancing himself from other cars.  I have only had a few similar experiences in my wilder days, but when I did, I like to think I could enjoy myself pretty well while keeping the other cars out of view for the most part.  Then again, I was never pursued by anyone with a tenacity quite like WD.

What do you think, Seven Readers?  Are the days of doing it anywhere with reckless abandon ruined by the modern cameras, cell phones, and youtubers everywhere nowadays?  Anyone want to share a crazy place they tried to do it and were busted?

Crazy Eyes

This might have been my longest time in between entries since I started back in 2005, and there is only one thing that could get me motivated to start writing again . . . Making fun of someone!  It's one of the major flaws of bloggers; the fact that we observe people, make mental notes of all the crap they tell us, and mentally construct blog posts where we will make fun of them at a later date.  But as Crazy Eyes (the subject of this post) cornered me at the bar when I was all alone with no escape, I knew she secured herself a blog post in the very near future.

Crazy Eyes is a barfly.  There's just no nicer way to say it.  She works at the bar where my buddy, Southie, has bar tended every Friday night for the last 13 years, and I'm pretty sure Crazy Eyes hasn't missed a Friday in all those years.  I had nothing going on last night so I figured I would go visit Southie who ended up being quite busy in there so he wasn't able to hang out with me much.  Ordinarily being alone at a bar isn't a big deal, but on this warm Chicago nigh, Crazy Eyes sucked onto me like a barnacle and wouldn't let go.

She looks like the big sister on "South Park."  It was driving me nuts trying to think who she looks like, and it suddenly hit me that she looks like a cartoon character designed to be obnoxious, and she succeeds towards those ends without even trying or having the benefit of writers and artists.  There is something in those eyes that can be quite maddening too.  They have an intense look in them, and her eye balls seem to dart around like a lizard at nothing in particular.  You just can't help but get caught up in those crazy eyes while she rambles and spits on you.

That's right.  She spits when she talks.  This has got to be her worst quality.  I remember at one point rolling down the sleeves of my sweatshirt so at least my forearms would be protected from the saliva shower I was enduring.  You would think that she would see the pattern of everyone wiping their faces when they talk to her, and this would tip her off that maybe she was spitting a touch to much.  Perhaps it's that slobbery quality of her voice and the loss of her faculties due to the extreme amounts of booze she ingests that makes her lose control of her spit.  Which reminds me . . . 

She drinks like a fish.  If you have been around this blog for more than a few posts, it's pretty clear that I have a similar problem.  Hell, I even shocked myself to find that some of the highest subjects tagged have been "drinking," "bars," and "the bar."  However, I like to think that I can be an entertaining and intellectual drunk.  Poor Crazy Eyes just gets lit up like a Christmas tree and has even less interesting things to say.  She told me all about her spin classes and her roommate who likes Japanimation a little too much, and I had nowhere to go until more friends arrived.  I just listened, watched those crazy eyes, and got sprayed with the spit.  Oh yeah . . . 

. . . Her mouth isn't the only thing that sprays.  I hate to say it, but I know at least three guys who have said "what the hell," and took her home after last call.  I guess ladies who drink like animals and wear lingerie and garter belts in public aren't that hard to bed.  But my one buddy said that she squirted all over his sheets.  He told me this happened every time they got down, and he said "I just didn't have enough linen to keep fuckin' that broad."

Sorry.  That was crude, but it was funny and just couldn't be left out.  

How about you, Seven Readers, do you have anyone brutal in your life that you would like to talk about in the comments today?

Him: Hey, babe.  You almost done in there?  Because I gotta poo like a mastodon.

Her: Yikes.

Him: Wait, what's a mastodon again?  A minotaur is half man and half bull, and a centaur is a half man and half horse . . .




Her: A mastadon is a giant, hairy elephant thing.

Him: Oh yeah.  That's what I gotta' poo like so hurry up in there.

Bad Guys and Acne Scars

I had these thoughts late at night while unlocking my bike outside of a crowded bar:

Those two guys look suspicious.  I don't want to get robbed.  Guy on the right has acne scars.  It's not my fault that I'm scared of him.  The 80's taught me to be scared of those types, what with the dude from "Grease" and Bryan Adams.

Vote Early and Vote Often For the Reverend.

I like to think that I have always had some influence over people with the use of my charm and wit.  This dates back to the time in the 5th grade where our class had an election to vote in the primary election for the president of the United States.  During the weeks of campaigning, we made posters to hang up and tried to get others to vote for our guy, mine being Jesse Jackson.  I'm not sure why I chose him for my horse in this race, but I guess I have always just liked Black people.  If it is proof you are looking for, I had a Black Cabbage Patch Doll and my favorite G.I. Joe was Roadblock.

Looking back, it was rather racist that being the Black G.I. Joe, he rapped his dialog.

After the votes had all been added up, our teacher asked us why so many of us voted that way, and the students couldn't really put it into words.  I kicked back in my chair, folded my hands behind my head and smiled, loving what I had created.

"I need that 11-year-old white kid vote!"

I have always used my influence for good instead of evil, and I have had mixed results over the years, but perhaps my greatest achievement will always be convincing 20 to 30 upper-middle class, suburban 11-year-old white kids with conservative parents to vote for the Reverend Jesse Jackson. 

If you were a Bear fan in 1991, then you no doubt still have fond memories of Bears' receiver, Tom Waddle, and his series of unbelievable catches in a playoff game against the Cowboys, catching a series of passes thrown across the middle and getting absolutely creamed over-and-over.   I just watched his highlights again, and the poor guy was slow to get up after some of those hits, looked really woozy and disoriented, and was given smelling salts and sent back out on the field.  He caught what was then a Bear record for receptions with a late fourth quarter touchdown, but he just didn't look excited about it.  In fact, something looked very wrong with him.  As it turns out, he doesn't remember getting that touchdown or anything else that happened in the fourth quarter.

Waddle is a sports radio host here in Chicago, and when the often talked about NFL head injury issue came up, Tom's co host, Mark Silvernman, asked him about the concussions he had during that famous game.  Tom said that he not only forgot that quarter, he scared the hell out of his wife when they were driving to the hospital for tests together and he had no idea who she was.  Despite the fact that Waddle and "Silvy" have worked together for a number of years, seem to be friends, and have no doubt talked about this very game on and off the air numerous times, Silvy admitted on the air today that it's the first time he ever heard that story about him not knowing who his wife was.

Waddle was then asked if knowing what he knows now about traumatic brain injuries and their lifelong effects, if he would take that game back.  He seemed unsure, admitting that it didn't matter that much because they lost the game anyway.  But he did say that at 46-years-old, he can now put his ego aside and admit that the right call is for a doctor to make the call that a player can't return to the field in times like those because now what is important to him is spending time with his wife and kids and being able to have the brain capacity to have the memories of his family's life events.

Today was one of those days where I parked my car but stayed inside to listen to the end of this piece because I was so moved.  Waddle was a hero of mine as a kid.  He was a slow, blond, white guy around 6'1" and 185 pounds.  About the same description as me when I watched him play that game as a kid on my television in Chicago's suburbs, only now I'm an inch taller and afraid to say that I'm a little on the wrong side of 200.  I still idolize his gutsy performance from that playoff game, but like Waddle, now that I'm a little older and wiser, I now see the importance of protecting the players.  The game wasn't that long ago, and just give it a look.  Is there any way in hell in today's game that he would have been allowed to keep getting back onto the field taking those licks and looking the way he did?  I sure hope not.  Yes, I consider him a hero, but I'm also very thankful his brain weren't more damaged, and he still has that wit to make me laugh on my ride home from work in the afternoon.

Part 2 of That Thing I Was Working On Last Post

Last post I took a look at the first ten on the list of things that annoy you if you're really into music, or whatever the author called it.  So far 5 out of 10 on the list I had to answer with a "Yes, that bothers me."  Let's see how I do with the final 11 . . .

11. "When you can't talk about a band without saying everything about the band."

Yes.  I catch myself doing this.  I need to work on just dropping that one anecdote and just stop.  Just get in, get out.  But I always get on tangents that could potentially be bothering those around me, and certainly bothering the female I'm with at the time.

12. "Only being able to start things when you've found the perfect playlist."

Yes.  I can't do any work around the house until I have a good record picked out, and I certainly can't exercise in any way whatsoever without assembling a bomb playlist.  In fact, I'm more likely to end up going to the gym if I know that a good playlist is waiting for me on the shuffle in my gym bag.  

13. When you play a song for someone and it's not as awesome as you remember.

Yes.  I just recently downloaded the theme from "The Lost Boys," and while it sounds so cool in the movie with all the vampire visuals, just hearing it on your iPod sound incredibly dumb.

14. "When someone refers to 'your music' so dismissively."

Yes.  I was playing some Yo La Tengo at work a long time ago, and a bitchy coworker of mine at the time said, "Does your girlfriend like your music?"  She said "your music" just as the author of this list intended.

15. "When you can't stop yourself from ranking everything."

Yes.  Anyone who has been around this blog page for a while knows that I have made a lot of lists over the years, right down to the funniest douche commercials of all time, so yeah, I rank stuff too much.

16. "When you can't stop planning the songs they will play at your wedding."

No.  But it's close.  I don't care too much about making a list like that until it's getting close to take the time to take the plunge.   However, I do think it's important for every couple to know what their first dance will be because that's their song.  Mr and Mrs Noisewater's song is "The Air That I Breathe" by The Hollies, incidentally, and we will slow dance any damn place immediately upon hearing those soothing sounds . . .

17. "Or Your Funeral"

No.  Not even I do that.  This one might be the one you need to ask yourself to see if your music snobbery has gone slightly over the edge.  Well, if I had to pick a song, I guess it would be "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion.  Just kidding.

18. "When you need to keep a running list on your phone of songs you need to sing on karaoke."

Yes.  I'm afraid to say yes.  This one embarrasses me a little, but yes, I will make a mental note of a song I need to try out the next time I grab the mic.  When next I sing, I was thinking I need to do some Phil Collins, but if I'm too hammered, then I always sing the "go to" songs that I can do on drunk autopilot.

19. "Then you never end up using it."

Yes.  Or I try it once and it's way harder than I thought it would be.  I thought one time it would be good to sing "Nickleback" because it's so bad, but because it's such a bad song, it's really hard to sing.  It's a very awkward melody.

20. "When a song comes on that you just can't not sing along to."

Yes.  But more I would say that I just can't sing one line or phrase that I think is particularly good.

21. "When people think they're super fans but only know the latest record."

No.  This one would have been a definite yes for me a few years back, but I have really changed my ways.  I'm a recovering music snob.

However, music snobbery is like herpes.  It will go away for long stretches of time and then will rear its ugly head when something flares it up, like reading this list.  Once you have it, you never entirely lose it.

Totals: 13 out of 21

I just saw a list of 21 Problems Only Music Lovers Will Understand and I wanted to see how many of them fit this music lover struggles with. Yes means it bothers me, no means it doesn't, and let's see the totals to see how nuts I am, shall we?

1. "When people don’t realize that a hit song is just a cover of another song."

Yes. I once knew a guy who insisted that Clapton wrote "I Shot the Sherrif." I showed him evidenc (before the internet) that Marley wrote it, and he still insisted he was right.

2. "When someone asks you what your favorite album is and expects you to pick just one."

No. Pick one. Don't be a wuss. Dark Side of the Moon is the best rock and roll album ever recorded. Period. Any good music hard-ass type is nothing if he/she is not decisive.

3. "When you play a song for someone and they start talking."

No. Hearing a song for the first time doesn't always connect the first time through, and someone isn't always in the mood to hear what they want you to hear. Also, if you expect the two of you to sit there in silence while you force them to listen to something, you might be a nut.

4. "When the radio overplays the single from your favorite new album."

Yes. A recent example is the new Daft Punk. I loved it until I saw that it was playing on every station. I know it's stupid to not like something because everyone else does, but damn it, I can't help not wanting to have much in common with so many idiots.

5. "When the new album from a band you love gets a bad review."

No. People have their opinions. Lord knows I have them; only mine are always right.

6. When you have to wait 10 years between albums.

No. A band can take as much time as they want, but when they do wait that long, they usually come back only to suck. Weezer gathered a million fans during their long hiatus, came back with a fairly good record that was nowhere near as good as their first two, and then made a shit album every year ever since. So, you can take a lot of time off, but will likely come back sucky.

7. "When you have your headphones on and forget you’re in public."

No. When I see people air drumming or singing on the train or something, I always think how dorky they look, but it doesn't stop me from punching a low-flying branch as my high hat as I crush a drum fill on a jog.

8. "When no one gets your obscure music references."

Yes. That can be annoying, but the best thing to do is in that situation is just text a friend that you know will get it. What is more annoying is when there is a really cool song is in a movie or playing somewhere it shouldn't be and no one knows that it's amazing that the obscure song is being used, and that's why I have to go with a yes on this item.

9. "When you ask someone what they’re into and they say, 'Oh, you know. Anything.'”

Yes. But the wording of this one really matters. When someone says that they are into "all kinds of stuff" and then they are able to at least name some interesting things they like, fine. But if they just have a vague "anything" response, then yeah, that sucks. 

10. "Or they say they don't really listen to music."

Yes. Well, I guess it doesn't bother me; I just pity them. Unless they're into some kind of art, be it film, painting, sculpture . . . something! But it makes me wonder what kind of life they are leading where they're not stopping to appreciate anything beautiful in the world as it passes them by.

- - - -- - - -- - -- - -- - - -- - -- - -

Okay, this list is long. Maybe I'll tackle the other 11 on the list next time. I'm 5 out of 10 so far.  What do you all think? Do you agree or disagree with any of these? Are you a music obsessed nut-job type? Bottom line is this: I would have been a yes to every one of these about 5 years ago, so what does that say about me? I'm growing up? For better or worse?

The Crummiest Band to Ever Play a Wedding Reception

For some reason, whenever I am at a wedding reception I always think back to all the other ones I have been to; the best and the worst moments.  Without question, the worst wedding band of all time goes to the reception after the wedding of my good friend, Omega Supreme.

Omega is a 6'5" African American fella who is now happily married to a wonderful 6 foot plus white woman.  They are going to have some giant children whom I hope play for the Chicago Bears, be they male or female.    Now, Omega let me know beforehand that he wasn't too happy about his bride-to-be booking her cousin's band for the occasion, but there was just no getting her to bend on that issue.

The band was not very talented, or perhaps they just haven't rehearsed in a while, and they had a random trumpet player who would sneak horn playing into songs whether the song called for it or not.  They also jammed out self indulgent solos through out the songs, which wasn't really necessary and made the already poorly chosen songs longer and even harder to dance to.  What was perhaps the most uncomfortable part was that they were very, very white.  They only song I can remember them playing was "Hey Ya" by Outkast, a song that was around ten years old at the time, but it seems as if they played it in an attempt to get the Black people out on the dance floor.  But to be honest, the white folks weren't dancing to anything either.

This is not a picture of the actual band, and if this is your band, I'm sorry to use you to be the visual for the worst band ever, but you kind of deserve it.  

When the band would take one of their frequent breaks, the groom would run over to the speakers, plug in his iPod full of awesome songs, and people of all colors, shapes, and sizes would dance their faces off.  Then the band would set back up, and it was like your parents coming home when you were throwing a bash while they were out and the fun is very much all over.  Everyone would go back to their seats or back to the bar.

I was chatting with Omega Supreme over a Budweister, and for some reason I was singing "to the window . . . to the wall!"  And he said to me, in this funny intentionally whining voice that he does sometimes, "Dr. Ken, youknow I want to hear the "to the window to the wall song."  But it was not to be.  The worst wedding band of all time continued their rain of terror well into the evening, but with enough shots of Jameson and enough stories about old times, we still had a great time.


How about you, Seven Readers?  You got a best or worst element of a wedding ceremony or reception?

Bottomless Beers and Exploding Tomato Paste

I had this dream last night set at the supermarket in the town where I grew up, and I was chatting with a guy I hadn't met before who seemed to be the manager or owner.  He was drinking a can of Busch Light and offered me one, and as he did so, he was explaining to me that it didn't look like it was 24 ounces but was, somehow.  He was right.  It looked like a normal sized beer but it said 24 ounces at the bottom of the can, and while I was marveling at the beer that he gave me, he pulled out a gun and yelled at a shoplifter to freeze.  Manager guy fired a shot at the thief, missing him, but he did magnificently explode a can of tomato paste all over the place.  Everyone in the store screamed and ran for the exits, including me, which was odd because the gun wielding manager/owner seemed quite chummy with me just a moment before.

"If you're cool, I'll give you a beer, but if you steal, so help me, I will blow your fricking head clean off."

Running towards the door, I ran past the lady at the register and reached into my wallet to find I had a five dollar bill and a one (which is actually what I have in cash in my wallet now - so dreams are smart sometimes).  Without stopping, I plunked down the five, told her to keep the change, and ran out with my deceptively fathomless can of beer.  As I went through the exit doors, there were a bunch of young men pushing the carts but mostly just hanging out, and as I took a pull from my Busch Light, they all seemed happy to see me and we knew all knew each other for some reason.  Walking to my car, now seemingly safe from the fire fight that continued inside, I heard one of them say to another "Dude, I bet Dr. Ken was just like you back in the day."

"Now with more splatter!"

It's hard to say if that youngster meant that in a good or bad one, but I like to think he was implying that it's cool to take a swig from a beer as you casually head for the door with bullets whizzing by and exploding tomato paste all around, splattering the aisles and aisles of packaged goods . . .

I stopped into a convenient store in downtown Chicago yesterday to get a Gatorade and interrupted a conversation between two African American clerks, one of which was saying "There was a kid popping off rounds, and this old guy comes out of his house to tell them to stop, and he got shot.  You need to stay in your house, old man, because you don't know what these kids are going to do these days.  These kids are crazy!"

I agreed with her, as she rang up my Gatorade, and she went on to say "Come on, old man.  You gotta get it together."

"Too late." I said.  "He's dead."  They both laughed, but I didn't really mean it to be funny.  This old guy doesn't need to stop doing what he is doing; these young men need to stop shooting each other.  The murders in my city are out of control, and the fact that there are every day, casual, light-hearted conversations about killing going on all across town is a really bad sign.

I was relieved to finally get a cab after a long wait for one at the airport and a long trip out of town, but I was soon wishing I had taken the train when my cabby launched into religious conspiracy theories.  This guy had some read doozies, and his off-the-wall explanations took the entire thirty minute trip.  As best as I can remember, It was about like this . . .

Dr. Ken: Hey, do you want to take the I94?  I think Lake Shore will be backed up from Lollapalooza.

Crazy Cabbie: No, it should be fine.  Hey, you know Lollapalooza's contract with Chicago will be up in seven more years?

DK: I didn't realize that.

CC: Yes.  And that's the year when all three of the major religions will start to become one.

DK: Fantastic.  It's about time we all got along.  But why that exact year?

CC: It's simple.  The year 2020.  Two plus two is 4, just like the three major religions (Christianity, Islam, and Judaism) and the fourth is for mankind.

(At this point I attempted to change the subject with no success)

DK: You know, cabbie, when I got that gin and tonic on the plane, I didn't get my little plastic sword to stir with.  Don't you hate that?

CC: And I'll tell you another thing, Obama better watch out next year when he turns fifty three.  Want to know why?

DK: I guess so, but maybe you should tell him, and not your customers because some customers might think this is all a little . . .

CC: Because JFK was 35 when he was shot, and Obama will be 53; the reverse!

DK: Uh oh.  So someone is going to shoot him?

CC: Oh no.  Shooting was already done.  This one will probably be from someone poisoning his food.

DK: Hmmm.  He had better have those Secret Service boys tasting his sandwiches just to be safe.

CC: Yes!  He should!  And then the next U.S. leader will be a hot white chick.

DK: Wow.  I'm all for that.  But can't you make her a foxy Black chick?  I like those.

CC: No sir.  A white chick.  And she will be the temptress attempting to lure 80 world leaders with her lascivious ways away from the big three religions.

DK: Well, those hot chicks can be convincing.

CC: But she will fail!  And then there will be 48 hours of darkness, and then the earth will spin in the opposite direction with the sun rising in the west and setting in the east!

DK: Hmmm.  I would think a drastic change like that that would kill everyone.

CC: No, what will kill everyone is when Jesus returns and sends down a great meteor that will take everyone's life, and everyone will be judged to see if they go to the after life.  But first Jesus will be here with us for 40 years.

DK: Wow.  I can't wait to see how badly the press will be hounding him.  He won't get a moment's rest.  That's probably what will make him snap and call his dad for that meteor.

CC: Jesus' return will be amazing.  I just hope that I live to see it.

DK: Well, I'm sure you're a good Muslim, so you'll get there.

CC: Oh yes.  I have been fasting for weeks now.

DK: Does that mess with your brain, all that lack of nutrients.

CC: Oh no.  My head is as clear as ever, and after a while you get used to fasting.

DK: Okay.  Well, I know when I get a little hungry I start getting a little . . . nutty.  Just take care of yourself, cabby.  Pull over right here, if you could.  This is my place.

CC: Yes, sir.  Have a good evening, my friend.

DK: You too.  And maybe stop off for a snack.  Me, Allah, Jesus, and even the Hot White Chick won't judge you.  You need your strength, especially with all these cataclysmic events right around the corner.  Good night.

We should all be naked for Judgment Day.  After all, that's how we all came into the world.  

I was at a party the other night, and there was this insufferable attractive woman with no filter blurting out all kinds of perverted things about herself.  I know what you're thinking, how is this a problem?  Well, she was the type who has no charm or wit so she has discovered that telling us about her boyfriend's big wang is the only way she could hold anyone's attention.

I don't even know how she got onto this next topic, but I'm guessing there was zero segue like all the other things she spewed. She began to tell us about being able to shoot ping-pong balls out of her vagina.  Not because she is a stripper, just because she wants everyone to know what a sexual dynamo and social pariah she is.

Trapped on a cramped balcony with this ding bat for an hour with her attention-seeking behavior led me to blurt out something strange of my own.  "I could shoot those ping-pong balls out twice as far out of my anus."  This rattled her.

"No you couldn't!"  She exclaimed.   "I do Kegel exercises!"   

"So.  I take like three dumps a day.  I have power out of my butt hole like you wouldn't believe.  I would launch those suckers down that whole hallway."

"That can't even be done," she said.

"What's it worth for you to find out?  You go first."

Jimmy Butler of my beloved Chicago Bulls had the picture below leaked onto the internet.  The first thing you may think is that by wearing this shirt he is summing up all that he thinks matters in life (drugs, his favorite body part of a woman, and what he uses to buy those two), and that would just be awful if he were that shallow.  But let's think of some other explanations.

First off, he responded on Twitter to say that he was sorry if anyone was offended by the shirt, but it matched his shoes.  I'm not making that up.  

Jimmy just isn't good at making excuses, so let me take it from here, Jimmy.

Those are actually their nicknames from when they were growing up, Pussy, Money, and Weed (from left to right).  Weed is in reference to how tall Jimmy grew up as a kid.  Everyone back in Texas was always saying, "That boy is sprouting up like a weed!"  I hit a growth spurt as a kid, and people told me that all the time, so that makes perfect sense to me.

Ladies and gentlemen, from left to right, please meet Pussy, Money, and Weed

Actually, do you want the truth?  Here it is.  Jimmy had to meet his friends out at a bar to celebrate his friend, Pussy's, recent certification to become a certified yoga instructor.  His other good friend, Money, is holding up two fingers to signify that it took two long years of Pussy's time!  What hard work that young man put in!  Now, Jimmy knew that he had to remember to do a few things before he got home that night, and due to some of his recent concussions suffered during a grueling playoffs, he had to print up this shirt to remind him to swing by the store on the way home to pick up kitty litter, $60 in cash from the ATM, and some gardening gloves to pull weeds the next morning for Doris, his aging friendly neighbor.

It was Money's job to have someone take this picture and text it to Jimmy on the ride home, but he accidentally sent it to the wrong friend, Coke, and that guy just can't be trusted with anything (sniff, sniff).

There.

Now, if there are no further questions, please leave Jimmy alone.  And Pussy, Weed, and Coke, for that matter.