I wanted to tell a story that a friend told me once and share it with you all because it's really funny, but first I had to check a few things:

A) Have I already told it?

No.  I ran a search of couple of key words, such as couch, and surprisingly I haven't put this one down yet.  

B) Does the friend and story teller have a name that I have assigned him on my blog that I should use?

No.  But this triggered me finding a bunch of other people I have given blog monikers, some of which have had inconsistent spellings, wording, or all together different names over the years.  So then I spent the better part of an hour going around making the names of these dudes (read drinking buddies) consistent.  I then created a word document that I can reference in the future to avoid any more mishaps.  Turns out that I have at least 16 people with blog names, and some of these folks I really need to reconnect with.  

Anyway  

On with the story . . .

This friend of mine told me a story about a time he got lucky one night and took a young lady from the bar back to his Lakeview apartment.  They started fooling around on the couch, and soon their clothes were mostly off.  They were in a position in which he was sitting on the couch facing into the living room, and she was riding him on top facing the wall.  Suddenly, my friend becomes aware that she is magically tickling his bean bag somehow, but why was her hand so soft?  And so wet?  He then looked back to find that his dog was lapping away at his balls.  He laughed, shooed him away, and was kind enough to tell his good buddies this heart warming/ball warming story.  I hope you enjoyed this tale as much as I did, but somehow I doubt that is even possible.

I have a bit of a situation here.

A friend sent me a text with a video attached of a woman's ass shaking to the beat of a rap song, moving each cheek to each beat.  Then the person turns around to reveal a young white kid who says "Oh, you're gay as hell!"

I responded with what I thought was "Looks like Bieber is having fun in jail."  Because the kid looked just like Justin Bieber.  Not my funniest joke, but whatever.

But what autocorrect sent was "Looks like BELIEVER is having fun in jail."

A number I didn't recognize called, but because I was expecting a call from the rental car place, I picked it up.

An angry Black man was on the other line.

Him: "You call me?"

Me: "Uh, no."

Him: "Well someone texted from this number."

Me: "Maybe I responded to a group text or something?"

Him: "Uh huh.  Yeah, right."

And he hung up.

Then I got two calls from another random number.  I didn't answer.

You see, this friend of mine texted that video to tons of people, and my response went back to all of them, and it seems that on some of their phones, my response came unconnected to the video text.  So these Black fellas are wondering who in the hell I'm talking about that is in prison.

I responded to JUST the sender and said "I mean Bieber" but it's already too late.

Damn you autocorrect and phones that don't group responses of texts together, or whatever.  And damn you Justin Bieber.  Why do YOU get a pet monkey and I just got angry Black guys all over Chicago that want to kill me.

The Microwave

I was talking with a coworker the other day, and he told me about a woman he knew overseas (which I assumed meant when he was in the military) called The Microwave.  She was really attractive, always ready to do the deed, but nobody dared touch her.  At least not more than once because she had a burning case of venereal disease - and it was hotter in there than a microwave.

However, there was one guy who got with her three times knowing his pee-pee would hurt and he would have to go to the clinic and get shots.

Well, you know how the saying goes, right?

Burn me once, shame on you.  

Burn my wiener twice, shame on me.  And my wiener.

But burn me three times, and . . . God dang it, my thing burns!

"And for God's sakes, don't shag The Microwave again!"

Pet Monkeys

He had a monkey, and rumor has it, he "beat it."

Here's the thing: I'm tired of rich celebrities with pet monkeys.  They so rarely understand that monkeys aren't supposed to be pets, and they don't take the time to nurture the damn monkeys.  I heard Michael Jackson tormented Bubbles the chimp by poking him with sticks and stuff.  The other day I saw a picture of Beyonce kissing a monkey.  Now that is just wrong.  You know why?

Keep putting the hat back on, and he will just keep lifting it up to look for lice to eat, dumby.

Because I wanna' kiss a monkey, God damn it!  Actually, kissing is a bit much.  I just want to a monkey hug.  Just a few.  I know that a pet monkey is a lot of work, and I'm no less selfish than a celebrity, so just a monkey for a day would be fine.

Bieber just went to jail, and I've been wondering who is going to house his monkey.  I would gladly do the right thing and take in the monkey.  But just for a day.  No, I wouldn't teach him to drink or smoke or anything messed up like that, but I can't promise that he wouldn't try on some super awesome outfits, maybe a few Metallica shirts.

Monkeys are trending.

#Monkey.  #Monkeyforaday.  #Monkeyhugs.

I just set the blog record for use of the word monkey in this post.  I figure if I say monkey enough, the right monkey owner will contact me and let me hang out with their monkey for a day.  You all better say monkey a few times in the comments just for good measure.

She has a damn tiger cub too?  Jesus H. Tap Dancing Christ on a pogo stick, that is cute!

Mayhem

Back when I worked at a record store, we sold a lot of posters of a Norweigan death/black metal band called Mayhem.  I had no idea at the time that they were a band that engaged in arson, suicide, and murder.  In that order.  Let me explain . . .

The lead singer had one of the best names ever: Dead.  He liked to make himself look like a corpse, and by burying his stage clothes in the ground a few nights before a concert, he could look and smell like one.  The band all lived together in a house in the country and in 1991, Dead, took his own life in that house by slitting his wrists and shooting himself in the head for good measure.  In his suicide note he apologized for the mess and for shooting the gun indoors, and said "cheers."

Finding his band mate's bloody corpse, guitarist Euronymous did what anyone would do.  He went to a nearby store to take photographs of Dead's dead body to use for the cover of their next album.  He also took pieces of the skull to make necklaces out of to give out to black metal bands he thought were good. What an opportunist and what a straight up psychopath!  One member named Necrobutcher thought the band was getting a little nutty and left, and another departed after getting a death threats from Euronymous.  Members in the band used to burn down churches together, so if you weren't keen on that, you couldn't be a member of Mayhem either.

Then one night in 1993, Vikernes murdered Euronymous.  Vikernes claims that Euronymous planned on torturing and killing him and video taping the whole thing, and when Euronymous attacked him, he simply defended himself.  By stabbing him.  23 times.  Oddly, the courts didn't buy that story and sentenced Vikernes to 21 years in prison for a combination of the killing and the whole church arson thing.

The band would continue on with drummer, Hellhammer, as the only original member and person crazy enough to stay in a band like this.  He has abandoned the satanic imagery.  Great, right?  Nope.  They then got into Nazi and racist themes in their music.  Dang it! Then in 2003 a fan was hospitalized for a fractured skull after getting struck by a severed sheep's head that was hurled from the stage. 

In May of 2009, Vikernes was released from prison.

I'm going to Norway this summer.  I hope I don't meet any of these guys.  If everything goes to plan, I won't be involved in any church burnings, I won't get stabbed 23 times, and I won't get hit in the head with an errant sheep skull. 

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What did you think, folks?  Did you learn anything today?  How did you like my book/internet
report on Mayhem?     

Hockey Hair and Hockey Songs

What is it about hockey that attracts the types who still like classic rock, heavy metal, the working class, and long hair on dudes?  And I don't at all mean this in a bad way.  It's good.  Very, very good.

I went to a Chicago Blackhawks game on Friday night, and I noticed that during any break in the action the house music would kick in with songs like Bad Company's "Rock and Roll Fantasy" or Billy Squire's "Lonely Is the Night."  What other sport is still utilizing songs such as these?  I like to think I know a little bit about what is good and what isn't in music, and these songs are really stupid in a lot of ways but really enjoyable in most every important way.


(Jeez.  That is just a lousy lip-sync performance.  He doesn't even try to sell it.  Must have been on a bender the night before.)

I also noticed that women going to a hockey game aren't all dolled up like the women in the first few rows at a Lakers game.  Not at all.  Those gals come in there without makeup, wearing a baggy-ass hockey jersey (something few girl can look good in), and they are very invested in the game, not even talking to their boyfriends about anything but hockey.  I went with an old friend who I only see once a year or so, and we were getting looks for talking about things that did not concern the game at hand.

Another break in the action at a critical moment in the game, and we hear REO Speedwagon's "Riding the Storm Out."  I did a blog post a number of years ago about pedaling my bike through an epic storm on the  way home from work to the sounds of that very song.  And yes, I had it on my iPod then and still do.  Sue me.

Hockey is it's own little world.  And it's the only sport in Chicago where the team is playing worth a damn, so I'm trying to get into it a little more.  With feel good songs like these, how can I not get enthused?

And here is this song because I heard it in the bar after the game and it kicks major ass.  Have a very sham-a-lam-a-ding-dong Martin Luther King Day, everyone.

At Least I'm Not a Brony

How's everyone doing today?  I had kind of crappy day.  I was tired all day and had a crisis which made me bust ass when my ass felt like going to sleep, and then my car was stuck in the ice when I tried to go to lunch.

However, whenever I think I'm a loser, I just remember that there are guys out there who play with My Little Pony dolls and call themselves "bronies."

Yes.  Life ain't so bad because I'm not a complete moron like the guys featured in this documentary.

<iframe width="560" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/ohnuyqJyEW0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>

I think my favorite line is the one that goes something like this:

"I was just sittin' here, just liven' day to day, and then The Ponies came into my life, and I'm like 'Wow.  I wish this day could go on forever!'"

The Boot

A buddy of mine was in a relationship for a long time in which he was having "the sex" around once or twice a year.  Newly single, he is ravenous out there, taking home women of all shapes and sizes and telling us all about it.  I must say, every time I say him on a Sunday during a Bears game, he shares some hilarious information about one of his recent encounters, the funniest of which would be the following:

He got down with one gal recently, and apparently the act was less than enjoyable for him based on this description of what it felt like to go in there:

"It felt like doing it with a fireman's boot full of warm, spoiled mayonnaise."

Let that soak in for a moment.  Like the mayonnaise.

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How about you, Seven Readers?  Got any friends who became suddenly single, and it's totally weird hearing about them dating?  

At my work we got some new workout equipment, so this coworker and I have been working out every Tuesday and Thursday.  The thing about this coworker is he is just a way better person than I am.      I know, I know, some of you are saying, "Ken's not such a bad guy!"  No, I'm not, but for a variety of reasons, he is just a better human being than myself.

1. He is deeply religious and I believe in nothing at all.  This gives him an overall optimistic attitude that probably effects each number below this one.

2. The only person he has ever had S.E.X. with is his wife.  Meanwhile I have had some of the most regrettable encounters ever out of sheer loneliness at 2AM, and I have blown off a bunch of women by just not calling them anymore, like a total coward.

3. The other day we're working out, and he is telling me that he wants to paint his office.  I asked him why in the hell he would waste time doing something like that, considering no clients are ever coming in there, and he said because there are holes in the walls and the color has no character.  You should see my office.  I got an R2D2 from Burger King on my desk, and that is about the classiest thing in there.

4. He never talks smack or gets negative.  So many other people around there do, but he never lets himself get sucked into that sort of thing.  I talk a little smack, much less than most, but if there is a good joke in it - I can't resist.

Overall, I feel like if I spend a couple days a week with this dude, some of that work ethic and morals will hopefully seep into me at some point.  Most of the people I hang out with are more like drinking buddies.  Those can be the best kind of friends, but it doesn't hurt to pepper in some "good people" buddies in the mix like this fella.

How about you?  Ever hang out with someone who makes you want to be a better person?

2 Snow Days!

I just had two snow days right after a two week vacation, so this is my sixteenth day off of work.  It has been below 20 degrees outside, many offices have shut down, and people on Facebook have been stepping outside to toss boiling water into the air to film it turn into ice-cold vapor instantly.  From what I have heard about what it's like out there, I decided to stay inside for these two days.  Here is what I have been doing.

1. Reading. I just finished the Johnny Carson biography and last night, during some awesome insomnia, I read almost all of "Juliet, Naked" by Nick Hornby.  I like using the kindle because I can click a word, and it instantly tells me what it means.  One word I don't use nearly enough is wont, as in "I'm wont to staying cooped up in my apartment for days at a time and steadily losing my mind."

2. Working out.  But not at the gym.  It's far to cold to go all the way over there.  I have weights and things at home and an application on my phone where I can search for workouts to do, it gives me instructions how to do each exercise, and then I get points when I'm done!  What do I get for these points?  I have no idea.  There is no winning, just more points - not unlike Donkey Kong.  I also like when the computerized voice chimes in to say "You can do it."  Thanks, robot fitness lady!

Hey, I just had a thought.  Why don't they have video game based workouts, like jumping over barrels thrown by donkey kong, or pedaling a bike that powers Pac-Man faster, and making turns somehow to get power pellets and ghosts?  Probably this has already been done in some variation, but I think the classic games would hook in the aging people who loved those games and need more work out motivation.  I know at least one guy that fits that description.

3. Actual work for my actual job.  I just did an hour or two of that.  I was desperately hoping that I couldn't get logged into the system and would have an excuse to blow it off, but alas, it bloody worked.  Anyone else hope for good excuses like that?

4. I finally broke down and threw out all my old VHS tapes.  Considering I don't have a VCR and most everything can be replaced on DVD or laser disc and there is no space in this tiny apartment, they had to go.  But as some of you know, books and music and things are kind of like my little friends and so hard to part with.  Two that I didn't dump was a recording of Super Bowl XX when the Bears won (along with the victory parade) and the original Star Wars movies in widescreen format and before Lucas went back and put in the piss poor cartoons and things and ruined entire scenes.  But when am I seriously going to ever convert those things to DVD's?  Likely never.  They'll just sit in a corner somewhere being ancient and awesome and every day increasing the likelihood that if ever put into a VCR, the tape will shoot out like a ticker tape parade.  Kind of sad, really . ..

5. Listening to lots of music.  I have kept my iPod in the next room and have not allowed myself any skips.  You would be surprised with the stuff you own and like when you have tons of weird music and can't remember where it all came from, like me.  We can find value in a song when we don't immediately jump at the chance to skip it without giving it a fair chance.  I just heard this cover of the Flaming Lips by Postal Service that I didn't even know I had.



How about you, Seven Readers?  What have you been up to?  Has it been this cold out by you?  Did you miss any work as a result?

Roofie Huxtable

I was looking through the memos on my phone to see if there were any good blog topics that I had jotted down, and there was an entry from New Years Eve to myself that read only the following:

Roofie Huxtable.

I did a google search, and it looks as if no one else had thought of it, but the question is, is it funny?  No.  It isn't all that funny, but can I make it into a worthwhile blog topic?

Would if there was an episode of The Cosby Show where Rooty slips her whole family roofies so that she could do all kinds of stuff that little kids like to do when unsupervised: Play her pop albums on the good stereo, try on all Mrs Huxtables jewelry and clothes, eat cookies a mere hours before dinner, maybe cut off all of Denise's hair, take Heathcliff's BMW for a spin, make a pipe bomb to blow up Peter's house for no particular reason . . .

No, that wouldn't be a good episode, and it's a downright shitty blog post.  I apologize.  And grown up Rooty is sorry too.

Random As Hell Chicago Updates

1. My mom is coming into Chicago to spend the day with me.  We're going to the Chciago History Museum, which will be the first time for both of us.  Then later tonight we're going to play team trivia at a really chill bar in Lakeview.  Our team might just be the two of us, but she's a ringer for sure.  The question is, am I going to pull my own weight?  I'm praying for a Megadeth category . . .

2. The Bears just signed quarterback Jay Cutler to a seven year deal, and wow are my Facebook friends mad!  Some are calling it a prison sentence, others are calling it the 7-year-itch (as if he is football venereal disease).  I'm still taking it in, reserving judgement, ready to drink beers every Sunday and watch my Bears, win or lose.  That's the kind of fan I am.  A drunk one.

"Does it smell like burnt plastic in here?"

3. I got a burrito place down the street from me that I love because the guys in there are always fast, efficient, and in a terrific mood.  It's always, "How are you doing, mi hermano!?"  I also have a janitor at my work who, like mis hermanos, is always loving life.  It's like he would rather be doing nothing else than cleaning poopy streaks off of toilet bowls.  With janitor guy, it seems a little suspicious that he is that gleeful, like maybe he is sniffing the cleaning products.

Either way, remember how good you have it because there are guys serving burritos at 3AM and mopping floors who are three times happier than you, and your job isn't so bad, right?

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 . . .

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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.