Beefcakes, Wiggers, and Wankers (In That Order)

I was all ready to do a blog about the pro-wrestler Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake, since I recently used his name in the "name game," you know, when you name celebrities and "drink while you think." The name is a great one to use, because names with the same first letter for the first and last name reverse the order. Although, that one is a triple, so maybe the direction straightens back out, but anyway, more importantly, just uttering the name for the first time in ten years had me giggling all night. I did some research for the blog, and while I'm sure it would have been decent, I really just wanted to type the name Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake. And now I have, and I'll type it one last time for good measure. Brutus. "The Barber," Gosh-damn Beefcake.

Now for the actual topic: My summer job as a photographer of tourists has brought me in contact with a lot of interesting coworkers, but they all share one quality: They're all a hell of a lot younger than me. It kind of sucks being the old guy, and I was reminded of this the other day when one gal said that I am so "90's." I had never heard that before, but I guess it's the same as when I see a guy with a mullet and jean shorts and I say he's "so 80's." To this younger generation, the 90's were a time when they were little kids, like the 80's were for me, so they didn't really experience the times, in terms of fashion, pop culture, etc. You know what is REALLY mind-boggling to me? These kids weren't even alive when the Bears won the Super Bowl in 1986. They don't know shit about "The Fridge," "Mongo," "Butt-head," "The Junkyard Dogs," "The Black and Blues Brothers," or any of that stuff. When they were little kids No Doubt and Sublime were all over the radio. That's nostalgic for them. Weird . . .

So the other night I found myself partying with these 20-year-old art students, full of Keystone, which was what I drank at their age, and while admittedly drunk, I typed the following memo into my phone for future blogging purposes: "Wall-to-wall wiggers. Black people have always had a strong hand in popular culture, which has been a good thing. However, it has turned white, suburban America into a nation of wiggers." Okay, I know, that's not at all a PC term, in that it implies it's alright for me to use the n-word, which it's not. I just don't know another word for it, and it sounds good with wall-to-wall, just like Beefcake jives so well with Brutus "The Barber."

It wasn't just their wiggerness, but their not-yet-cultivated, embarrassing personalities that bothered me. As Richard, my Irish coworker, who is the same age as them, said: "They're a bunch of wankers." I saw one wanker wearing the same exact sunglasses (at an indoor party), Rolling Stones shirt (fucker probably only owned the greatest hits,) and do-rag at two straight parties. Yeah. I went twice, which I'm not proud of. Anyway, his name was "Smitty." NOBODY should be called "Smitty" until they are the old guy at the office. I got news for Smitty, he will be the old guy in office some day, but long before that he will be the wanker of the office. This guy was so darn serious about throwing ping-pong balls into plastic cups, you'd think it was the Olympics or something. No Smitty, not the Olympics, just the Wankerlympics.

I have to say though, I've been really crabby and unhappy with my life lately. Part of my hatred for these kids really stems from jealousy, and I'm not talking about being jealous of their ping-pong ball throwing. What bugs me about these kids is that they're so young and studying to do something creative with their lives, which is what I always knew I wanted to do, yet I settled to study more "practical" things. Well, now I'm "practically" broke and my only creative outlets are this rag that I write and my shitty guitar playing. One wanker I was talking to is studying to be a writer, and my first instinct was to doubt that this schmuck has to offer the world, since he too was a white kid with a do-rag and camouflage pants AND shirt. Who knows? Maybe he'll be the next Hemingway, maybe he'll fall flat on his wanker-face, but at least he's going for it. Meanwhile, this wanker is lamenting and drowning in his own hatorade. I just learned that term. Jeez, I AM "so 90's."

Varts

I need to discuss a very sensitive topic today. It is a phenomenon that has baffled scientists for years, but made many of these scientists giggle uncontrollably. I'm talking, of course, about queefing. Here's a definition I got off of wikipedia:

Queef (flatus vaginalis in Latin) is an emission or expulsion of air from the vagina, often during or after sexual intercourse or (less often) other sexual acts, stretching or exercise. The sound is somewhat comparable to flatulence from the anus but does not involve waste gases and thus often has no specific odor associated.

WAIT, stretching and other exercise? Ladies, does that really happen??! How embarrassing! So, a really tough yoga stretch can induce a whopper queef? That would really mess up everyone's concentration. Speaking of which, it can really mess up one's concentration when one is doing the old "in-out-in-out." It's a terrible time to laugh, because it seems like it always happens when I'm doing something right, perhaps due to the amount of pressure, I'm not sure, but it's always all I can do to hold it together without laughing. I mean, when I got a real good stroke down I don't want to kill the mood by laughing, but come on, farts out of a vagina is a damn, funny concept.

I must admit, I have a little queef envy. I mean, yeah, I can pee standing up effectively with my sex organ, but I can't fart out of it. How sad. Hey, readers, please address at least one of these items:

1. Whether it's physiologically possible or not, what should we call a fart out of a penis?
2. British and Australian readers, I just read on Wikipedia that you all call queefs "fanny farts." Fact? Also, I've heard them referred to as "varts." That's what I'll be calling them henceforth, as the title would indicate.
3. This is more of a warning than a topic, but don't ever blow into a woman's vagina to induce a queef, as awesome as that idea may sound. Evidently it can be life threatening for a woman and her baby if she's pregnant.
4. Tell me a funny vart story.
5. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be shooting air up my dick-hole with a turkey baster. Sure it's risky, but this is science, damn it.

Sincererly,

Dr. Kenneth Noisewater

Cotton-Pickin' Weddings!!!!!!

There was a period of my life where it seemed as if I was going to a wedding every other weekend, and then I had a long, GREAT stretch of time where I went to zero weddings (except Bubba's). Unfortunately, during the month of July I have to attend three, one of which I went to last night with the quasi-girlfriend. Here are the highlights.

- The DJ/Music SUCKED! During dinner he played jazz, which would have been perfect, had it been Miles or Ella, but it was flipping elevator-music/waiting room jazz. I felt like I was waiting to get a tooth drilled, rather than waiting for a shitty steak. At one point in the night, a point in which I was rather drunk, he played Eyes Wide Open by Creed. Yes, terrible, awful, bible-thumping Creed. I just had to sing it in an exaggerated, over-enunciating way, a-la Scott Stap, which was good for some laughs. The only time the DJ redeemed himself is when he played The Gancer's requests: Ice Ice Baby by Vanilla Ice and Poison by Belle Biv Devoe.

- I got horribly depressed. Okay, I guess that's not a highlight, but it was noteworthy to be sure. I was married once, and while the marriage sucked and ended in ruin, the wedding was beautiful and a great time. Also, I couldn't help but think that it was my only wedding, and if I do it again a big "to do" will just seem stupid. Could I really ask a bunch of those people to come back to a big wedding any time soon, when my last marriage only lasted 8 months? "Hey, come on back to Chicago and get me another gift! I'm sure I'll make it a year this time around!" The whole experience, and all the other marriages around me that seem to end in one or both party being completely shitty to the other, has led to my extremely cynical outlook on marriage, which makes it hard as hell to be happy and/or optimistic at weddings. Don't get me wrong, I don't bring people around me down, and I want to be happy for the brides and grooms I see and suspend my disbelief, but I just can't get myself there.

- The crowd kind of sucked. It seemed as if there were lots of boring, early-twenties people, kids, old people, etc, but very few people of any kind who liked to get piss drunk, which is a guest's civic duty at a wedding. It's impolite not to. What have these people's mothers taught them? The dance floor was only full during the early, dorky, make the old folks happy, Twist and swing portion of the evening. During the late-night, someone better have a tie wrapped around his head part of the night, the only time I saw anyone get crazy was when they played Cotton Eye Joe, and some people were doing some kind of stupid-ass, Hee Haw, foot-slapping dance. It was painfully embarrassing.

- One thing that really blew was when the bar opened back up after that always brutal stretch of closed-bar time during dinner, when you've run out of the shit wine they drop on your table hours ago. Just as the bar tenders got back to their station, the slide show began. The really, long slide show, which was three parts (Bride, Groom, and Bride and Groom Together). The happy couple were sitting in chairs, holding hands, RIGHT by the bar, so anyone who stopped watching the show to get a cocktail, would look like an inconsiderate, stinking drunk, which I am, but I didn't want to tip everyone off to that fact, especially in front of the quasi-girlfriend's coworkers. Instead, I waited to see if anyone else was bold enough, but sadly, no one was.

Anyone been to any weddings lately? What was the suckiest thing about it?

Yet Another Craptastic Update Post

- Today, on my bike ride home from my guitar lesson, with my guiltar strapped to my back, I got a head nod and a smile from a random guy with a guitar. Even though random guitar guy can no doubt play circles around me, I felt like a member of a secret society.

- I'm reading 2001: A Space Odyssey, which is a mind-blowing book, but it's like the fifth time I've read it. There's lots of books out there I need to read, but my lazy ass just keeps rereading the handful of books that I own.

Cherry crapped himself the other day.

- Last night I went out boozing with some kids from Ireland who I met at my summer job at Navy Pier. These kids come out every summer, they always have like 10 people living in a two bedroom apartment, and they're great fun. There are a lot of things I learned from those fellas, but what I will for sure take away from the debacle is this: Henceforth, The Gancer will only refer to guys as "lads" and girls will be "birds."

Moments After Waking Up This Morning . . .

I cranked out maybe one of the loudest, most ungodly farts that's ever had the pleasure of exiting my asshole in its 30-year existence. Before I could bask in the glory of such an accomplishment, as I often do after farts of this magnitude, my heart sunk at the realization that my special lady-friend was lying next to me. Keep in mind, I've only been seeing this gal a short while, and up until this morning, I had not yet ripped ass in her presence. My first thought was, maybe she's sleeping, which is possible, but I don't think it's possible she slept THROUGH it, since it was, as I said earlier, quite a fart. So, then I was pretty sure she must have heard it, but I had waited too long after the fart to comment upon it, so I just said nothing, which is worse than at least saying SOMETHING, right? She must be like, "Man, this guy just thinks he can fucking UNLOAD a fart like that and not say anything??"

Isn't it crazy how we hold our farts in and pretend we don't shit for the first few months we're dating someone? Come on, we all poo and fart, right? I learned that when I was two when I read Everybody Poops, so why is it that I go through such great lengths trying to convince all the women in Chicago that I've never floated a brown trout? You may not believe this, well, if you've been reading a while you probably will, but sometimes I'll go over to a girl's house, like after work, and be like, "Is it cool if I take a quick shower? I just feel really gross." Then I'll turn the shower on, cut one off, and rinse off in the shower right quick. She can't hear me grunting, farting, or flushing, and my asshole is clean as a whistle after the shower. The perfect crime!* But why do I try to fool these women into thinking that I don't make poops or farts? Is that really a better scenario in her mind if she really believes I don't poop? What would that make me? An alien? A robot? A Terminator? Does she really want to date The fucking Terminator?

How about you seven readers, that is, if you're still willing to read after such a low-brow post: Tell me a good poo or fart related dating story or just tell me if you've farted or pooped in front of your current partner, or tell me about the first time you did with a previous partner.

* You're free to use this trick, seven readers. Let me know how everything comes out. Get it? Comes out . . .

Blogging While I "Let Those Puppies Soak."

I'm not a good cook. Let's put it this way, right now I'm cooking something off of a recipe I got from A Man, a Can, and a Plan. If you haven't heard of this publication, it's all recipes you can make from canned goods like chili, beans, and even spaghettio's (TM). I like that they say things like, "dump the can of chili into a mixing bowl," or they'll tell you to pour half a can of beer into something, and tell you to chug the other half, which I did. They also have big-ass pictures of the various cans when each one is called for, so it's kind of catered towards a third-grader, which is perfect for me.

Right now I have some A Man, a Can, and a Plan ribs marinating in the fridge, and they've been there a couple of days, which would be okay with a plastic bag, but they're just in a mixing bowl with tin foil over it. Do you think I'll get botulism? I asked my fireman/EMT roommate, and he said, "Oh yeah. You're fine. Let those puppies soak." I figure he's in the business of saving lives, so he wouldn't suggest a highly-risky, meat venture that would put my life in jeopardy, right? That would go against his Hippocratic oath, would it not? We all should have oaths, like mathematicians should have a Pythagorean oath, just because I've always liked that word. What would my oath be? I'm thinking a Bugs Bunnian oath, in which I pledge to be a life-long smart ass, even in the face of danger. Hey, seven readers, what would your oath be?

Tonight I'm going to see Digital Underground, with none other than Humpty, who would have numerous oaths:
1. Never will I have my oatmeal any way but the way the good Lord intended, lumpy
2. So long as there are Burger King bathrooms, I will "get busy" in them.
3. Until the day I die, every time I get in a 69, "my Humpty nose will tickle your rear."
4. Last but not least, if I have the pleasure of coming to your home or place of business, "I (will) eat up all tha crackers and tha licorice" and drink all the "Hennessee ya got on ya shelf."

Marcus Greene

The other night, my special, lady-friend* and I were at a coffee shop enjoying a couple of smoothies, mine with mango and strawberry flavors blended together**, when I was approached by a middle-aged, Black man who asked if I liked poetry. Now, I suppose I could have said, "No. I don't really care for poetry, unless you know some dirty limericks.***" That would have been the best answer, but I was caught off-guard and I had a touch of a head freeze, so I said, "You bet. Big poetry fan here." He then asked if I'd like to hear a poem, so I said, sure, so long as it was a quick one. He then read us FOUR poems, which was more then I asked for, but he did read them fast, and I mean fast, like the guy from the Micromachines (TM) commercials.

When he was done, he asked if we'd like to buy a packet of hand-written, photocopied, versions of the poems we had just heard, complete with piss-pour illustrations, and his name signed and printed at the bottom of each one, all for the low, low price of $10 a piece. Part of his sales pitch was to tell us that he is a Vietnam veteran, he is fifty-eight years old, and he proceeded to lift up his shirt and show us a scar on his stomach. I produced a dollar from my wallet, and I said I'd just give him a buck for his time. He counter-offered with five bucks for the two packets we were reading along with, and I said fine. Then he asked if he could have the other dollar I took out too. I thought that last request was a bit shameless, but I was happy to give it to him, because he gave us something to talk about for the next half-hour, and here I am blogging about him.

Now, without further ado, I give you mine and Marcus' favorite poem from the aforementioned packet. At first glance it looks really simplistic, but when I read it, I can't help but recall the exact cadence and the level of sincerity with which he read it. His performance convinced me that Mr. Greene was really in love at some point in his fifty-eight years on this earth, and that make happy, and a little reluctant to throw out the packet when I'm done with this blog.

Love, By Marcus Greene

Love, as the flower grows
The little butterfly knows
My heart throbs, and as for
You my love also grows

* For the reacord, Dr. Ken's progressions goes:
This Chick I"m Seeing
Lady-Friend
Special Lady-Friend
Girlfriend

** I know, what a goofy drink, but it was refreshing on a hot night, it was too late for coffee, and my options were limited due to my lactose intolerance.

*** My favorite dirty limerick starts with
There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose dick was so long he could suck it.

A Crummy Update Post? What a Jip!

If you read my post about my rotten guitar playing, you'd know how pleased I am to report that I had a good guitar lesson today. My teacher was all about high fives, and he said he's been waiting for this break-through lesson. He went on to say, "Man, your pinkie came to play today!" I got all the way through We Dance by Pavement, and I have to hand it to my teacher for pulling off the vocals while he played along with me.

If you read the post about the crazy roommate who stole a bunch of shit when he moved out, I'm happy to tell you that he gave us back most of the stuff he stole, but he also told us to hold off on cashing the checks he gave us. Although I'll never use it, I am very pleased to have my decanter back safe and sound. Wait, I just re-read that roommate post, and I didn't tell you that he stole shit. Well, he did, and we got it back.

I'm into summer job mode taking pictures at Navy Pier, and I have the farmer's tan to prove it. A friend of mine recently asked me why I don't do something like this full-time, since I talk about this dumb job more than my "real" one. He makes a point, but I don't know . . .

Just when I started getting "involved" with someone, I meet the four, female, attractive, medical students that moved into the bottom unit of our two-flat. It's hard to explain, but some of you Chicago and ex-Chicago readers will understand what I mean when I say it's so hard to be committed to anyone in the summer. It's something about people out more, girls wearing less, everyone's seasonal affective disorder has subsided, and there is a street festival every weekend. We just appreciate our summers in these parts, and people get together more, you'll just have to trust me on this. Anyway, I just started to really dig on this new girl I'm seeing. Don't get me wrong, my eye still wanders, as it always will, but I didn't get that agitated, "I have to get out of this" feeling when I would see and meet new people. Well, today when I bumped into a particularly cute, smiley, and friendly medical student/neighbor while doing laundry, I got that feeling a little bit. Okay, more than a little bit. Well, I'm off to see the girl I'm "involved" with, so wish me luck with keeping that feeling at bay . . .

The First Gentleman

Did you know that's what they'll call Bill Clinton if his wife wins the election? That's right, First Gentleman. It makes sense, I guess, since gentleman is the counterpart to lady in the expression "ladies and gentlemen." It just sounds damn funny, but a little classy too, right? It got me thinking, what The Gancer (Dr. Kenneth Noisewater) would be like if asked to be our nation's first First Gentleman. My first thought was that I'd be a freeloading, half-assed, homemaker loser, but I think the K Fed comparisons would be enough to drive me out of the White House and into the work force. I would also engage in some other endeavors . . .


1. I'd nag my wife incessantly until she appointed me Secretary of Rock. Man, that has a nice ring to it! First Gentleman or not, somebody should appoint me to that post, because I'd be awesome at it. I think I'd have to dress the part, like maybe a Dee Snyder look, but with a judge's robe. If I deemed something too sucky and/or wussy, I would launch a formal investigation and scrutinize chumps like Rob Thomas from Matchbox 20. One too many "nays" from my committee, who would be all appointed by me, and most likely would consist of my drinking buddies, and Rob would be Josh Homme's (from Queens of the Stone Age) guitar tech for a year-long, probationary period until Rob learned how to better rock and suck/wus-out less.

2. Since some past First Ladies have championed women's rights, maybe The Gancer could be a strong proponent of Man's Rights. Here would be some of my Man's Rights causes

A) I would have the Lorena Bobbit decision over-turned. I mean, yeah, the guy is an abusive moron and a lousy excuse for a human being, but did he deserve to have his penis lopped off? Maybe so, but should she have gotten away scott free? I demand some punishment, because it's setting a dangerous and downright scary, especially if you're a man who values his penis, precedent. To avoid such a precedent, I would have her serve one day in prison or one day fluffing Ron Jeremy, whichever she wants.
B)How about a two hour period of time in which a wife is not allowed to talk to her husband, like during an important ball game, as if he could hear half of what she's saying then anyway . . .
C) Come to think of it, I'm not too big on these Man Rights. All this misogyny is starting to make me feel like Mighty Dykerson, and while I love his work, it's making me uncomfortable.

3. Help me out here, seven readers, what other responsibilities do you think I should have? What would you do? Female readers, what would you like from your First Gentleman if you were a lady President?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skunk Boy!!

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

Wood/Water

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4) This

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Consider Me Focused

I got an email from my roommate, my new favorite roommate, that said he was participating in a focus group that would be giving us beer AND paying us $100. FINALLY, I was going to MAKE money drinking beer, instead of coming home at 3:30 in the morning to find that I had magically turned all my crisp twenties into crumpled-up ones.

For reasons I can't POSSIBLY understand, the focus group facilitators were scrounging last minute for participants, so the lady who emailed Roomy and I told us to say we were Coor's light drinkers, and not to tip off anyone that we knew one another. When we got upstairs, staggered by a minute and a half as to disguise our friendship, we found many people, both men and women, and there were, in fact, pitchers of beer flowing liberally. Then one of the facilitators said something that I really wish she wouldn't have: "Okay, ladies, thanks for your time. Be sure to get your money on the way out." Yup, we have a sausage fest/sword fight on our hands.

The remaining men sipped beers and answered a woman's questions while one guy filmed us, and another gal typed something on a lap top. Eventually, we learned that the people talking to us were from Miller Lite, and they were trying to figure out what makes people choose a given light beer. The consensus of our group was that we don't care which one we drink - whichever one is on special is a-okay. They ran a bunch of slogans concepts by us they were kicking around, and the only one I remember right now was, "That's SO miller." We all decided that was the gayest* thing we'd ever heard, but that didn't stop roomy and I from saying it all week long. Come to think of it, I'm going to say it to him next time I see him.

There was one participant who must have been right out of college, because he was that guy who thinks drinking is SO COOL. Every time he would talk about drinking beer it was like he was a missionary trying to tell us "the truth." A testimony to his belief in the all mighty beer was that when asked what his favorite slogan of the night was, and I stand corrected, since I do remember one more slogan, it was, "You need a case for that." This ad had guy in a shirt and tie huddled up in the fetal position. I, of all flipping people, had to chime in and say that they couldn't encourage alcoholism like that, and suggest that you're just twenty-four beers away from all your problems fading away. That's ridiculous! After all, it should only take thirteen or fourteen. : )

After collecting our $100, in the form of two crisp fifties, which I've since, once again, turned into crumpled-up ones, roomy and I mingled with a couple of the other participants, and we learned a few things:

1. Some people, Roomy included, are doing too many of these things when he is being recognized from previous focus groups.
2. We all agreed which people, "you need case for that"-guy included, were complete tools.
3. Two of the guys knew each other too, like roomy and myself, but they were smart enough to sit all the way across the table from one another. They told us that we did a shitty job at looking like we didn't know one another. In retrospect, we did sit next to each other, cracked jokes back-and-forth the whole time, and we tried to riff off some of the advertising concepts with our own ideas. We had a really awesome idea, which they have on film, and they really should use. I'd be kind of pissed if they did, but, hey, they'd probably be pissed if they found out I blogged about all this stuff. Who knows, maybe someone from Budweiser will read this rag, rip off an idea, and the next thing you know you're watching a "That's so bud" ad.
4. The gal interviewing us tipped us off that the women she had interviewed just before us said that if they saw a guy drinking a Coors Light, they would assume him to be "white trash."

Okay, seven readers, what does a drink say about a person, especially if you're trying to decide if you're interested in them or not.

* I know it's not politically correct to use that word in this sense, and I typically don't use the term that way, but come on! It is a gayer than shit slogan, is it not?

Sunny Bunny (TM)

As some of you know, I make ends meet by working as a photographer for a company that takes pictures of moron tourists in Chicago. I have spent the last three days taking pictures of kids sitting with the Sunny Bunny, named such to keep things secular and politically correct. Here are the highlights:

Day 1: Sunny Bunny (TM) is not officially affiliated with any organized religion, but she has been assigned a gender; female. However, despite the fact that the guy in the suit on Day 1 was as male as The Gancer and even The Cherry Ride, he was prancing and swishing around like Rupaul. One little, Black kid on a field trip came up to me and said, "Did you know it's a guy in that suit? He's tweekin'." I reserved comment so as not to pass judgment, but also due to my limited knowledge of tweekin', I didn't feel comfortable deeming someone as a tweeker or nontweeker.

Day 2: Since nobody wants much to do with an Easter Bunny, or holiday bunny, whatever, after Easter, things were really slow, which gave us lots of time to play charades. I know what you're thinking; charades sucks. But, you have not played with the non-swishy/tweeker Sunny Bunny (TM) working day 2, who is the most expressive, imaginative, kick ass charades player I've ever seen, especially when you take into consideration the fact that he only had four fuzzy fingers on each of his bunny hands. I was guessing all of them, and he did the little back-and-forth motion, which, because he and I had the mojo, I knew meant that he too thought he and I had an uncanny charades connection.

Day 3: Everything went wrong. I couldn't get the damn computers working, and the dude working his second day, despite being very knowledgeable in the martial arts and the one-inch punch, was not much help. I called everyone I could think of to help trouble shoot, but eventually the boss had to come out. He was pissed, and more than a little bit mean to The Gancer, which soured my mood. I was so bent about the whole thing that my charades game suffered.

Okay, I'm thinking of a word, and the category is ME (displays index and middle finger on arm to indicate the number of syllables. He then puts hand up to his own forehead and makes an "L" with his index finger and thumb).

Top 3 'I'm Not That Into You' Songs

We often hear about the greatest love songs of all time, but what about the most apathetic sentiments of all time? You know, songs about those people you're seeing, who you certainly don't hate, but you're nowhere near loving them. I think you'll agree that these are three fine choices. So, without further ado, The Gancer brings you the Top 3 'I'm Not That Into You' Songs of all time:

3. Stay by Pink Floyd. In the first verse there is no way to tell that unassuming keyboardist Rick Wright is not into the philly to which he sings:
Stay and help me to end the day.
And of you don't mind,
We'll break a bottle of wine.
Stick around and maybe we'll put one down,
Because I wanna find what lies behind those eyes.

Then the next morning he wakes up and does a total 180:
I rise, looking through my morning eyes,
Surprised to find you by my side.
Rack my brain to try to remember your name
To find the words to tell you goodbye.

I wonder what words he chose to tell her goodbye? I have a good friend, who's fear of commitment and confrontation exceeds even mine, who sets the alarm on his phone to go off in the morning as if it were ringing when he's doing a "road show", so that he can fake a phone call and get out of there. Buddy, if you're reading, you're a sick man, but that's pure genius.

2. Stay With Me by Faces, off of the A Nod Is as Good as a Wink to a Blind Horse LP, which could easily make a top three list of best album titles. This song tells the story of a guy trying to lure a young lady upstairs to read his "tarot cards," which is really code for bumping fuzzies. I've always said, "Would you care to see my painting?" ANYWAY, the narrator then offers the "jezebel" cab fare and use of his "best cologne" if she agrees to not be there in the morning when he wakes up. What a stone, cold pimp!!

1. Saturday Savior by Failure. Yikes! These lyrics speak for themselves:
I'M NEVER GONNA SAY THE WORDS
THAT YOU WANT
I'M NEVER GONNA FEEL THE SHAME
LIKE YOU DO
I'M NEVER GONNA STRETCH MY SHAPE
TO BE WITH YOU
I ONLY NEED YOU FOR A DAY
'CAUSE I ONLY WANNA BE YOUR

SATURDAY SAVIOUR
I CAN BE THAT
SATURDAY SAVIOUR
I WILL BE YOUR
SATURDAY SAVIOUR
I CAN BE THAT IMPOSTER IN YOUR BED
WAKE HIM UP PLEASE

I'M NEVER GONNA MAKE YOU FEEL
THAT YOU'RE SATISFIED
I'M NEVER GONNA FEEL YOUR PAIN
LIKE YOU WISH I WOULD
I'M NEVER GONNA OPEN UP
MORE THAN THIS
I JUST WANNA BE YOUR
I JUST WANNA BE YOUR

I'M NEVER GONNA BREAK APART
QUITE LIKE YOU
I'M NEVER GONNA LONG FOR LIFE
THE WAY YOU DO
I'M NEVER GONNA PUSH YOU OUT
'CAUSE YOUR NOT IN
THIS WILL ONLY TAKE A WHILE
'CAUSE I ONLY WANT TO BE YOUR

Although he's a little harsh, you have to admire how up front this guy is, because it would be worse to lead her on, right? Congratulations, Failure, on placing number one on The Gancer's all-time 'I'm Not That Into You' songs.

Hey, seven readers, do you have any other nominations?

Twenty, Twenty, Twenty-Four Hours Ago, I Wanna' Be Bar Mitzvahd

Despite being 0% Jewish, I want to be Bar Mitzvahd in the worst way. In Jewish tradition, according to wikipedia.com, maybe not the best source, but certainly the easiest source for my lazy ass to use, "when Jewish children reach the age of maturity (12 years for girls, 13 years for boys) they become responsible for their actions. At this point a boy is said to become Bar Mitzvah (Hebrew: בר מצוה, "one (m.) to whom the commandments apply," So, until my bar mitzvah, the commandments do not apply, and I'm not responsible for any pre-Bar Mitzvah actions! That being the case, I plan on having some wild weekends leading up to my big day. That brings me to the first reason I have a hankering for a Bar Mitzvah, I think it's time that I make some changes in my life, and I should start to live according to some principals. Not necessarily Jewish principals, but some hand-selected, secular ones I will decide on, and live according to from that day forward. Maybe I'll let people at the party vote on them. The wheels are turning now . . .

More importantly, Bar Mitzvah is about a boy becoming a man, a status I am nowhere near at this point, but I need to get there. Why am a such a man-child at the age of 30? I could maybe point the blame at my upbringing, my surroundings, my drinking, my friends, my decision making, or any number of other things, but I blame it on my lack of Bar Mitzvah!! I am becoming a man, readers, and you're all invited!

Which brings me to my third, and most important, reason why I need to have a badass, Bar Mitzvah party: I love a good party! There will be lots of booze flowing the day The Gancer becomes a man, ladies and gents, and I've decided heavy metal legends Anthrax are playing. I think they'd turn that motha' out, and I figure I can get them to do it if I get someone to put it on TV, since Scott Ian's long, stupid beard is on 2000's era VH1 more than Gloria Estefan and Phil Collins were on early 1990's era VH1. They for sure are going to play a killer, ear drum busting, heavy-ass version of I'm the Man, since the Hava Nagila riff is in the song. Also, how perfect a song title for such an occasion, right? This is really coming together. Another reason Scott Ian could be persuaded is that he is himself a Jewish man, and according to jewsrock.org, yes there is such a site, "Born Jewish, guitarist Dan Spitz has been a Jew for Jesus since 2001." I would look up what the fiddler's fuck being a Jew for Jesus entails, but there's no time for that! There's too much to plan and so much to do!

Expect an invitation soon. This is my 94th post, so maybe my 100th will simply be an invite, and posting a yes in the comments section will mean you are cordially invited to the event of the season and the most kick ass Bar Mitzvah you've ever fucking seen.

Tour De Franzia and Edward 40's Hands

One of my former roommates was always pushing for a Tour De Franzia night. Have you heard of this? I did a little research, and although there are many variations in rules and regulations, essentially it involves two teams drinking the shit out of boxes of Franzia wine. Some people require that the bag of wine be taken out of the box for the sole purpose of slapping the bag like it's a fat rear end and watching it jiggle after each gulp. Uniforms are also a must, complete with matching helmets and spandex for each team. The headache the next day would be excruciating, but the satisfaction one would feel after ringing out that bag of Franzia, and giving that empty bag the final slap would make it all worth while and time well spent.

How about Edward 40's Hands, when you duct tape 40 ounces of malt liquor to each hand, so that essentially all you can do is drink malt liquor until they're both finished? No going to the bathroom either, unless you know someone willing to unzip your pants, take out your thing, shake it, and put it away. You wouldn't be able to trim the bushes in your backyard nearly as well as Johnny Depp, but you'd get a helluva lot drunker.

What do you think, readers? Which of these two games would you play? Which one would you be better at?

I went on a trip to Arizona for a bachelor party/Cubs spring training outing, and these are the highlights, in no particular order:

- Because my buddy is Asian-Indian American, many of the guys at the bachelor party were of the same descent, six in fact, which left six white dudes. So, when picking softball teams, it only seemed logical to have a brown on white match-up. Sadly, white boyz lost 4 to 2, despite my late inning, two-run double, charged by the following comment, made by someone on the Brown team when they had held us scoreless for eight innings: "Didn't your people invent this game?"

- To make the meaningless spring training game against the Oakland Athletics interesting we employed heavy drinking, via the big, white buckets of beer the vendor was cool enough to let us keep buying, and gambling, which was in the form of betting on what a guy in a certain spot of the line-up did with each at bat. I picked late and had the seventh hitter, but Buck Coats came through with a lot of hits, and one of the best cowboy names ever. There was also a pitcher for the Cubbies named Rocky Cherry, which, side-bar, is a good porno actor name, so we hummed the Rocky theme until he threw us a ball for the bachelor.

- Don't ever travel with an expired license. I had to go through the crazy security when you stand in that box and I got blasted with hard bursts of air, which scares the shit out of you, even if they forewarn you, and tell you not to be startled. They also opened up my bag and threw out all my toiletries, some of which were expensive, like my hair gel and my oil of oilay face soap. Okay, that is super-gay, but I have sensitive skin, damn it, or shoud I say, thenthitive thkin. They must have been worried that I had a plot to blow up the plane with the world's gayest, toiletry bomb. Anyway, the ID continued to cause me problems when an a-hole working the door at a bar wouldn't let me in because it was expired. I know it's a college town, but come on, I'm 30! He just didn't want my old balls in there . . .

- When we left a bar called cherry-something, which had pole-dancing girls in their underwear, yet it wasn't a strip club, because there were tons of female patrons, we saw a car accident RIGHT in front of the bar with everyone loitering outside to see it. If I were sober I would have been like, "Oh, man. That sucks." But, because I was fit shaced, I was like, "Oh snap! Did you see that," and I took pictures of the beat-up, smoking car with my cell phone. Moments later we saw a bunch of guys beating up one fat kid. That was also an awesome sight to behold, but not if you were the fat kid, I imagine.

Laziest Post EVER

This week's post is at The Liar's Club