From, OSU scientist questions the moral basis of a vegan diet "Millions of animals die every year to provide products used in vegan diets."
From, The Least Harm Principle Suggests that Humans Should Eat Beef, Lamb, Dairy, not a Vegan Diet. “Therefore, in this hypothetical example, the change to include some forage-based animal agriculture would result in the loss of only 0.9 billion animals of the field instead of 1.2 billion to support a vegan diet. As a result, the LHP would suggest that we are morally obligated to consume a diet of ruminant products, not a vegan diet, because it would result in the death of fewer animals of the field.”
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.
Take that you pompous, proselytizing, self-absorbed, hippy, pacifist jackasses. I’m sorry? What was that? Now who’s the inconsiderate prick? Huh? Well, it’s still me but, get off your fucking soap box, and let me enjoy my meat, in peace.
Friday, 17 December 2004
Thursday, 16 December 2004
Fuck You Barry Bonds. Fuck You and Your “Flaxseed Oil”
Well, here is my Bonds reaction. I took a while because I felt like I had a dick in my mouth and I knew what it was, I just pretended it was a lollipop because I didn’t want to deal with it until I got hit in the eye with a money shot.
Fuck You Barry Bonds. Fuck You and Your “Flaxseed Oil”
You’re ruining the game you arrogant, selfish, disgusting piece of shit.
How could you piss all over the game that gave you unimaginable wealth? A game that your father and godfather loved so much. You’re a fucking disgrace. Just kill yourself. Or better yet, give back all your records and all your money and bow out of the game. You're banished, exiled.
“But I didn’t know what it was.” SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU GODDAMN LIAR. Are you really so conceded and delusional or do you just think the fans are that stupid and gullible? Just for the sake of argument I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Let’s pretend you didn’t know. If I’m to believe what you said, you were using an “unknown substance” supplied by a man who “lives in his car half the time.” Those are your words. Your livelihood is directly tied to the health and condition of your body. But you want me to believe that you took a substance with which you were unfamiliar? Given to you by a man who was half homeless? Fuck you.
Again though, let’s imagine that you were ignorant of the contents of the hobo’s supplements. Wouldn’t you have stopped to ask a few questions When your voice changed? When your head grew two sizes? How about when you general appearance changed and you blew up to Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man proportions? Shouldn’t you have stopped and said “Hey medicine man/boxcar Willy, what this shit you’re giving me? No? Didn’t ask? Oh that’s right. Could it be because YOU KNEW EXACTLY WHAT THE FUCK YOU WERE DOING? You filthy conniving bastard. Close your mouth and stop the diarrhea that’s spewing from it.
I guess in the end though it doesn’t matter what he knew. Ignorance is not a mitigating defense. The bottom line is he took substance A. Substance A has been shown to be steroids, thus Barry Bonds took steroids. It’s as simple as that.
BONDS TOOK STERIODS. We’re moving on.
People who say thing like “Steroids don’t help you hit the ball” and “You still have to be able to play baseball” are as retarded as their arguments. If you couldn’t hit a ball or play the game you wouldn’t be in the Majors in the first place. Steroids help you recover faster which is extremely important when you are in direct competition whit people who are 15 years younger. It also helps build muscle so you can hit the ball further. Peter Gammons had this to say:
The most astounding number to come out of the Barry Bonds steroid controversy is not that 93 percent of the 40,000-plus voters on a SI.com poll don't believe Bonds' claim that he was unaware he took steroids. The more intriguing number comes from Stats Inc., which reports that Bonds had never hit a home run longer than 450 feet before the 2000 season, when he turned 36. Since then, he's hit at least 21 homers of 450 feet or farther.
No one can deny that steroids work, and work well. If they didn’t no one would take them. The downside is far too severe to risk if they weren’t extremely effective.
Bonds took steroids. By doing so he gained an unfair advantage and bolstered his numbers. So what should be done? Simple. Give him the Pete Rose Treatment. Lifetime ban. His records are expunged, he is never allowed on a field ever again, and he will not be considered for the Hall of Fame. I would also like every one of his 7 MVP awards to be taken and given to the player who finished second in voting behind Bonds. Being tarred and feathered and deported wouldn’t out of the question either.
Unfortunately what should and what will happen are two very different things. So what will happen? Nothing. I would be amazed if he even gets an asterisk next to his name in the record books.
Now all I can do is watch him hit home runs a pray that he drops dead immediately following number 713. I don’t want the most sacred record in baseball is owned by a cheater. I don’t even want him in the same discussion as Babe Ruth or Hank Aaron. I don’t want him anywhere near the game I love so much.
Nut up Selig. this mess is at least half your fault. Put on those gloves and clean up this excrement.
Fuck You Barry Bonds. Fuck You and Your “Flaxseed Oil”
You’re ruining the game you arrogant, selfish, disgusting piece of shit.
How could you piss all over the game that gave you unimaginable wealth? A game that your father and godfather loved so much. You’re a fucking disgrace. Just kill yourself. Or better yet, give back all your records and all your money and bow out of the game. You're banished, exiled.
“But I didn’t know what it was.” SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU GODDAMN LIAR. Are you really so conceded and delusional or do you just think the fans are that stupid and gullible? Just for the sake of argument I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Let’s pretend you didn’t know. If I’m to believe what you said, you were using an “unknown substance” supplied by a man who “lives in his car half the time.” Those are your words. Your livelihood is directly tied to the health and condition of your body. But you want me to believe that you took a substance with which you were unfamiliar? Given to you by a man who was half homeless? Fuck you.
Again though, let’s imagine that you were ignorant of the contents of the hobo’s supplements. Wouldn’t you have stopped to ask a few questions When your voice changed? When your head grew two sizes? How about when you general appearance changed and you blew up to Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man proportions? Shouldn’t you have stopped and said “Hey medicine man/boxcar Willy, what this shit you’re giving me? No? Didn’t ask? Oh that’s right. Could it be because YOU KNEW EXACTLY WHAT THE FUCK YOU WERE DOING? You filthy conniving bastard. Close your mouth and stop the diarrhea that’s spewing from it.
I guess in the end though it doesn’t matter what he knew. Ignorance is not a mitigating defense. The bottom line is he took substance A. Substance A has been shown to be steroids, thus Barry Bonds took steroids. It’s as simple as that.
BONDS TOOK STERIODS. We’re moving on.
People who say thing like “Steroids don’t help you hit the ball” and “You still have to be able to play baseball” are as retarded as their arguments. If you couldn’t hit a ball or play the game you wouldn’t be in the Majors in the first place. Steroids help you recover faster which is extremely important when you are in direct competition whit people who are 15 years younger. It also helps build muscle so you can hit the ball further. Peter Gammons had this to say:
The most astounding number to come out of the Barry Bonds steroid controversy is not that 93 percent of the 40,000-plus voters on a SI.com poll don't believe Bonds' claim that he was unaware he took steroids. The more intriguing number comes from Stats Inc., which reports that Bonds had never hit a home run longer than 450 feet before the 2000 season, when he turned 36. Since then, he's hit at least 21 homers of 450 feet or farther.
No one can deny that steroids work, and work well. If they didn’t no one would take them. The downside is far too severe to risk if they weren’t extremely effective.
Bonds took steroids. By doing so he gained an unfair advantage and bolstered his numbers. So what should be done? Simple. Give him the Pete Rose Treatment. Lifetime ban. His records are expunged, he is never allowed on a field ever again, and he will not be considered for the Hall of Fame. I would also like every one of his 7 MVP awards to be taken and given to the player who finished second in voting behind Bonds. Being tarred and feathered and deported wouldn’t out of the question either.
Unfortunately what should and what will happen are two very different things. So what will happen? Nothing. I would be amazed if he even gets an asterisk next to his name in the record books.
Now all I can do is watch him hit home runs a pray that he drops dead immediately following number 713. I don’t want the most sacred record in baseball is owned by a cheater. I don’t even want him in the same discussion as Babe Ruth or Hank Aaron. I don’t want him anywhere near the game I love so much.
Nut up Selig. this mess is at least half your fault. Put on those gloves and clean up this excrement.
Tuesday, 7 December 2004
We are all beautiful, unique snowflakes.
The other day I was thinking about people and the various shit they do. There are many behaviors that I exhibit in course of a day that I view as normal, yet could be (and often are) construed by others as inexplicably strange and at times, criminal.
I have begun to compile a list of some of those things here. If you would like, feel free to post some of the more unusual things that you do, or if you know me personally and would prefer, list some of the things I do that you find odd as I’m sure I don’t even think of many of them.
First and fore most I piss, everywhere. Literally. If I am not near a bathroom and the urge strikes me I will urinate on anything close by. I have also gone out of my way to take a leak on land marks such as the St. Louis Arch, the Sears Tower the Statue of Liberty, Central Park and the World Trade Towers (before they were destroyed) I am also minimally concerned with my surrounding as I am evacuating my bladder. Busy street? No problem. Heavy pedestrian traffic? Don’t care. Subway station? Didn’t have a choice. Day or night when I have to go I have to go. Also when I do have the luxury of using a restroom, I generally pee in the sink. That’s just who I am.
EDIT(12/10/04): I have recently been forced on numerous occasions to defend my predilection for sink urination so I will post my reasons here. It saves water and eliminates splashing. I don’t have to worry about putting the seat up and then back down to appease women and I can multi-task as I piss I can wash my hands, brush my teeth, fix my hair anything you can do in front of a mirror I can do while relieving myself. Before any of you spin off into a hygiene or sanitation agruement allow me to say that urine is sterile. There is really not a downside.
I may be the only person I know who makes decisions based on the potential for humor in any incarnation. I’m not saying that is the sole basis on which I choose but it carries much more weight than it probably should, especially in quasi-important decisions such as relationships. The other day I decided that if I ever saw a piano precariously suspended above the ground I would stand underneath it, not because I necessarily want to die but because I can think of very few things that would be more hilarious than such a fate, and how many times are you gonna get such an opportunity? Really, probably just once.
I’ll add some more later but these are probably the most prevalent.
I have begun to compile a list of some of those things here. If you would like, feel free to post some of the more unusual things that you do, or if you know me personally and would prefer, list some of the things I do that you find odd as I’m sure I don’t even think of many of them.
First and fore most I piss, everywhere. Literally. If I am not near a bathroom and the urge strikes me I will urinate on anything close by. I have also gone out of my way to take a leak on land marks such as the St. Louis Arch, the Sears Tower the Statue of Liberty, Central Park and the World Trade Towers (before they were destroyed) I am also minimally concerned with my surrounding as I am evacuating my bladder. Busy street? No problem. Heavy pedestrian traffic? Don’t care. Subway station? Didn’t have a choice. Day or night when I have to go I have to go. Also when I do have the luxury of using a restroom, I generally pee in the sink. That’s just who I am.
EDIT(12/10/04): I have recently been forced on numerous occasions to defend my predilection for sink urination so I will post my reasons here. It saves water and eliminates splashing. I don’t have to worry about putting the seat up and then back down to appease women and I can multi-task as I piss I can wash my hands, brush my teeth, fix my hair anything you can do in front of a mirror I can do while relieving myself. Before any of you spin off into a hygiene or sanitation agruement allow me to say that urine is sterile. There is really not a downside.
I may be the only person I know who makes decisions based on the potential for humor in any incarnation. I’m not saying that is the sole basis on which I choose but it carries much more weight than it probably should, especially in quasi-important decisions such as relationships. The other day I decided that if I ever saw a piano precariously suspended above the ground I would stand underneath it, not because I necessarily want to die but because I can think of very few things that would be more hilarious than such a fate, and how many times are you gonna get such an opportunity? Really, probably just once.
I’ll add some more later but these are probably the most prevalent.
Monday, 29 November 2004
Bouncer Haiku
I've had horrible writers block so I thought I'd try this:
It’s Saturday Night
I have ventured to TheBar
In order to drink
Bouncer did not show
For me, free beer and money
If I check ID’s
Gladly I accept
Minimally change my plans
Drink from plastic cup
Uneventful night
Only really card hot chicks
The rest I don’t care
Around 2 AM
Guy learns girlfriend is a whore
Becomes rather mad
Begins to talk shit
To some other bar patron
Shoving and yelling
Noticing scuffle
I now jump in between them
And try to calm them
My palm on one’s chest
Trying to moderate but
Get punched in the face
Grab the offender
I put him in an arm-bar
And escort him out.
The tensions dissolve.
My nose left slightly bloodied
Now twice in 3 months
Hey, That was good times
It was kind of difficult
But amusing, too
I think I will stop
Now writing in Haiku form
But who really knows.
It’s Saturday Night
I have ventured to TheBar
In order to drink
Bouncer did not show
For me, free beer and money
If I check ID’s
Gladly I accept
Minimally change my plans
Drink from plastic cup
Uneventful night
Only really card hot chicks
The rest I don’t care
Around 2 AM
Guy learns girlfriend is a whore
Becomes rather mad
Begins to talk shit
To some other bar patron
Shoving and yelling
Noticing scuffle
I now jump in between them
And try to calm them
My palm on one’s chest
Trying to moderate but
Get punched in the face
Grab the offender
I put him in an arm-bar
And escort him out.
The tensions dissolve.
My nose left slightly bloodied
Now twice in 3 months
Hey, That was good times
It was kind of difficult
But amusing, too
I think I will stop
Now writing in Haiku form
But who really knows.
Friday, 19 November 2004
Cameron Gets Drunk, Starts Shit
The other night I went out to TheBar with a few of my buddies. I had been pre-gaming at the apartment for a while and thus already had a pretty good buzz by the time we arrived. It was the usual, atmospherically subdued Saturday night. Mostly regulars a few random people. After a few beers I decided to spice up the night.
“Double shot of Jameson, Coke back.” Let’s get this party started.
I’m going to pause here and explain something to those of you who don’t know me; Jameson is my prodigal mistress. Beautiful and soft-spoken, warm and alluring, comforting, sensual. On our first meeting, I immediately fell in love with her. Our love took a turn for the worse when I discovered much to my chagrin that beneath her seductive facade she is a treacherous harridan, who desires nothing more than to beguile me into doing things I would normally avoid like a syphilitic, Taiwanese whore.
Despite my rocky relationship, like a battered wife I keep returning and even with the knowledge that no good could conceivably come of this, I continued to drink. A lot.
As the night progressed, I became more intoxicated than I realized. Judging by the reactions of others I was slurring rather badly, or speaking Sanskrit, I couldn’t really be sure in my drunken stupor, but either way, communication was breaking down rather quickly. This is always bad times as it leads me to become increasingly angry with the people around me and their inability to adapt to my new vernacular. I become electively isolated and am forced to find ways to amuse myself, and that’s when I get into trouble.
My buddy, TheBartender who knows me rather well has become an expert in recognizing the coming storm. Realizing the impending incident, he suggested that I go home. If by suggested I mean demanded. He told me he would get me a cab and pay for it. I was insulted by his insinuation that I was no longer in control and in a vain attempt to salvage the remaining shreds of my dignity, I insisted that I didn’t need his charity. I informed him that I would instead take the Brown Line home. Which would have been fine, if the Brown Line were running. Or went anywhere near my apartment. TheBartender, tired of arguing with a drunken idiot, rolled his eyes, did the responsible thing, walked me out side and hailed a cab. He shoved me into the back of the car, and gave the driver a fistful of cash and my address.
Increasingly more resentful I began grumbling and complaining, announcing that I was not an amateur but a seasoned veteran. Only I am entitled to determine when I have had enough. In order to prove this point, to no one in particular, I told the cabbie he could keep the money if he dropped me off at the after hours bar up the street. Despite the fact that I was speaking the ancient language of Drunk and his native tongue seemed to be from somewhere in the Middle East, he nodded and we proceeded to the Stop & Drink.
When I arrived and looked quizzically at the bouncer, who requested my ID, he examined me and said “Keep it under control, or you’re gone.” I slurred something at him, nodded in compliance and stumbled inside. I ordered a beer and watched passively as the haze descended upon me and the night deteriorated before my eyes.
I’m not sure exactly how it happened but I suddenly became involved in a loud argument with a man much larger then myself. When it turned into shoving, one of the bouncers, who had apparently been keeping an eye on me, intervened and escorted the both of us out of the bar.
Once outside, it would seem as if neither of us noticed the occupied cop car just down the street. Upon being released by the bouncer I hurled obscenity infused insults at the other guy. I don’t really understand my logic as I mentioned earlier that he was much larger than myself. He reacted quite unpleasantly, put his head down and charged me like a line backer making an open field tackle.
I didn’t have adequate time for my booze soaked brain to assess and react to the rapidly unfolding progression of events and this lapse allowed him to connect squarely. My lack of preparation, my intoxication and the force with which he hit me hit me caused something unimaginable to occur.
I don’t really understand the biology behind it but I immediately crapped myself.
He literally knocked the shit out of me.
Laying in a pile of my own feces I momentarily lost consciousness.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
Somewhere in the distance blue and red lights flashed and unintelligible voices filled the air. My head was pounding as if there were hundreds of tiny monkeys inside of it alternately kicking my skull and my brain. Lying still, I glanced around, trying to decipher my surroundings and piece together what had just happened. One of the cops, with the assistance of a bouncer, had the other guy against the car, palms down on the hood and was patting him down. The second cop was leaning over me yelling something.
As my head began to clear I realized he was asking me to identify the rather pungent odor that was now enveloping me. I swallowed my pride and tried to explain that the surprisingly forceful impact from the other gentleman’s assult had caused my bowels to release and regretfully I had defecated upon my person, but I imagine it came out more like “I shit myself.” The cop looked doubtful and confused as he helped me to my feet. Once I was standing I could tell by the look on his face, that he now knew I was telling the truth.
After slowly backing away and consulting with his partner. I was finally allowed to “get the hell out of here.”
I waddled around the corner and hailed a cab. Getting in I mused that for once I would not be the one complaining about the odor.
“Double shot of Jameson, Coke back.” Let’s get this party started.
I’m going to pause here and explain something to those of you who don’t know me; Jameson is my prodigal mistress. Beautiful and soft-spoken, warm and alluring, comforting, sensual. On our first meeting, I immediately fell in love with her. Our love took a turn for the worse when I discovered much to my chagrin that beneath her seductive facade she is a treacherous harridan, who desires nothing more than to beguile me into doing things I would normally avoid like a syphilitic, Taiwanese whore.
Despite my rocky relationship, like a battered wife I keep returning and even with the knowledge that no good could conceivably come of this, I continued to drink. A lot.
As the night progressed, I became more intoxicated than I realized. Judging by the reactions of others I was slurring rather badly, or speaking Sanskrit, I couldn’t really be sure in my drunken stupor, but either way, communication was breaking down rather quickly. This is always bad times as it leads me to become increasingly angry with the people around me and their inability to adapt to my new vernacular. I become electively isolated and am forced to find ways to amuse myself, and that’s when I get into trouble.
My buddy, TheBartender who knows me rather well has become an expert in recognizing the coming storm. Realizing the impending incident, he suggested that I go home. If by suggested I mean demanded. He told me he would get me a cab and pay for it. I was insulted by his insinuation that I was no longer in control and in a vain attempt to salvage the remaining shreds of my dignity, I insisted that I didn’t need his charity. I informed him that I would instead take the Brown Line home. Which would have been fine, if the Brown Line were running. Or went anywhere near my apartment. TheBartender, tired of arguing with a drunken idiot, rolled his eyes, did the responsible thing, walked me out side and hailed a cab. He shoved me into the back of the car, and gave the driver a fistful of cash and my address.
Increasingly more resentful I began grumbling and complaining, announcing that I was not an amateur but a seasoned veteran. Only I am entitled to determine when I have had enough. In order to prove this point, to no one in particular, I told the cabbie he could keep the money if he dropped me off at the after hours bar up the street. Despite the fact that I was speaking the ancient language of Drunk and his native tongue seemed to be from somewhere in the Middle East, he nodded and we proceeded to the Stop & Drink.
When I arrived and looked quizzically at the bouncer, who requested my ID, he examined me and said “Keep it under control, or you’re gone.” I slurred something at him, nodded in compliance and stumbled inside. I ordered a beer and watched passively as the haze descended upon me and the night deteriorated before my eyes.
I’m not sure exactly how it happened but I suddenly became involved in a loud argument with a man much larger then myself. When it turned into shoving, one of the bouncers, who had apparently been keeping an eye on me, intervened and escorted the both of us out of the bar.
Once outside, it would seem as if neither of us noticed the occupied cop car just down the street. Upon being released by the bouncer I hurled obscenity infused insults at the other guy. I don’t really understand my logic as I mentioned earlier that he was much larger than myself. He reacted quite unpleasantly, put his head down and charged me like a line backer making an open field tackle.
I didn’t have adequate time for my booze soaked brain to assess and react to the rapidly unfolding progression of events and this lapse allowed him to connect squarely. My lack of preparation, my intoxication and the force with which he hit me hit me caused something unimaginable to occur.
I don’t really understand the biology behind it but I immediately crapped myself.
He literally knocked the shit out of me.
Laying in a pile of my own feces I momentarily lost consciousness.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
Somewhere in the distance blue and red lights flashed and unintelligible voices filled the air. My head was pounding as if there were hundreds of tiny monkeys inside of it alternately kicking my skull and my brain. Lying still, I glanced around, trying to decipher my surroundings and piece together what had just happened. One of the cops, with the assistance of a bouncer, had the other guy against the car, palms down on the hood and was patting him down. The second cop was leaning over me yelling something.
As my head began to clear I realized he was asking me to identify the rather pungent odor that was now enveloping me. I swallowed my pride and tried to explain that the surprisingly forceful impact from the other gentleman’s assult had caused my bowels to release and regretfully I had defecated upon my person, but I imagine it came out more like “I shit myself.” The cop looked doubtful and confused as he helped me to my feet. Once I was standing I could tell by the look on his face, that he now knew I was telling the truth.
After slowly backing away and consulting with his partner. I was finally allowed to “get the hell out of here.”
I waddled around the corner and hailed a cab. Getting in I mused that for once I would not be the one complaining about the odor.
Wednesday, 17 November 2004
SamME Sosa is a Fucking Cancer
Despite the fact that the Cubs played their last game well over a month ago, here in Chicago they still dominate the headlines and talk radio, often for the wrong seasons. There is, of course, the requisite free agent rumors after the disappointing abortion of a season in which they were picked to win it all and yet couldn't even make the play-offs. Some talk about Steve Stone and his departure from the booth, but the main topic seems to be Sammy Sosa.
He spent all season whining and being a regular nuisance and attention whore. He refused to move down in the batting order despite the fact he was hitting an anemic .250 and striking out more often then he was hitting.
During the last game of the season he left before first pitch. After this his teammates were so infuriated with him that Kerry Wood smashed Sosa's club house boom box with a bat and Mark Prior demanded a public apology.
A few days ago Corky McBats returned to his native Dominican Republic and spoke to a local paper where he claimed he was mistreated and had earned the right to bat wherever he wanted. He said he would like to stay in the league long enough to hit 700 homeruns (and of course break the career strike out record in the process).
Nowhere did he mention helping a team or winning a Championship, and looking back at his career I can't ever remember him even talking about his desire for The Ring. He is a selfish bastard who is only concerned with individual accomplishments and will do anything to reach his goals. He puts him self and his sensitive ego above the rest of the team and their desire to bring a World Series to a franchise who hasn't seen one since the end of WWII.
This is the way he's always been. Cubs fans, myself included, just looked the other way. When he used a corked bat and claimed he grabbed it accidentally, we forgave him, even believed that it was an honest mistake. During the steroid controversy we all thought no, not Sammy not our team captain. Bullshit. I obviously can't say for sure weather or not he did 'roids but a guy like that would stop at nothing for personal glory. Also his suspiciously fluctuating weigh leads me to believe the rumors are true. A few years ago he had to cut slits in the sleeves of his jersey so he could fit his arms through them. Look at him now he's lost almost as much muscle as his BA has points.
He needs to be traded, I don't even care what they get, a mascot and a beer vendor seems fair. Failing that The Trib needs to go eyshawn Johnson on him, pay his contract and tell him not to show up to the games. He is a cancer, pure and simple you cannot win a title with him on your team.
They way I figure it The Cubs have a 3 year window in which to win the Series, to that end they need to build around the pitching core they have. Sign Carlos Beltran, no matter what the cost get Percival off the market of Kolb from the Brewers and then go after a lead off hitter with speed, Sorianno would be nice but Jermaine Dye would work with the re-signing of Todd Walker. Nomar needs to be given a 1 year with an option.
That's it if you can't win with that line up, you can't win, I'll accept the curse and move on with my life.
As much as I enjoyed the Red Sox victory, I couldn't help but think "That should have been the Cubs, that parade should have been here." So I'll wait, again, and hope they can finally pull it out, if Sammy's here again I'm taking a year off. You hear me Tribsters? That's it get him the fuck out of here.
He spent all season whining and being a regular nuisance and attention whore. He refused to move down in the batting order despite the fact he was hitting an anemic .250 and striking out more often then he was hitting.
During the last game of the season he left before first pitch. After this his teammates were so infuriated with him that Kerry Wood smashed Sosa's club house boom box with a bat and Mark Prior demanded a public apology.
A few days ago Corky McBats returned to his native Dominican Republic and spoke to a local paper where he claimed he was mistreated and had earned the right to bat wherever he wanted. He said he would like to stay in the league long enough to hit 700 homeruns (and of course break the career strike out record in the process).
Nowhere did he mention helping a team or winning a Championship, and looking back at his career I can't ever remember him even talking about his desire for The Ring. He is a selfish bastard who is only concerned with individual accomplishments and will do anything to reach his goals. He puts him self and his sensitive ego above the rest of the team and their desire to bring a World Series to a franchise who hasn't seen one since the end of WWII.
This is the way he's always been. Cubs fans, myself included, just looked the other way. When he used a corked bat and claimed he grabbed it accidentally, we forgave him, even believed that it was an honest mistake. During the steroid controversy we all thought no, not Sammy not our team captain. Bullshit. I obviously can't say for sure weather or not he did 'roids but a guy like that would stop at nothing for personal glory. Also his suspiciously fluctuating weigh leads me to believe the rumors are true. A few years ago he had to cut slits in the sleeves of his jersey so he could fit his arms through them. Look at him now he's lost almost as much muscle as his BA has points.
He needs to be traded, I don't even care what they get, a mascot and a beer vendor seems fair. Failing that The Trib needs to go eyshawn Johnson on him, pay his contract and tell him not to show up to the games. He is a cancer, pure and simple you cannot win a title with him on your team.
They way I figure it The Cubs have a 3 year window in which to win the Series, to that end they need to build around the pitching core they have. Sign Carlos Beltran, no matter what the cost get Percival off the market of Kolb from the Brewers and then go after a lead off hitter with speed, Sorianno would be nice but Jermaine Dye would work with the re-signing of Todd Walker. Nomar needs to be given a 1 year with an option.
That's it if you can't win with that line up, you can't win, I'll accept the curse and move on with my life.
As much as I enjoyed the Red Sox victory, I couldn't help but think "That should have been the Cubs, that parade should have been here." So I'll wait, again, and hope they can finally pull it out, if Sammy's here again I'm taking a year off. You hear me Tribsters? That's it get him the fuck out of here.
Sunday, 17 October 2004
Eulogy of a Season.
GODDAMN CUBS.
Just when I think I'm out, they pull me back in.
The Cubs just fucked up their chance at a post season by loosing 3 in a row the Cincinnati Reds.
A few select questions seem appropriate here:
Seriously? Did I just watch this abortion of a season?
Is it that hard to beat the fucking Reds? At home? Really?
This is a fucking play off race you jack-asses!
What the fuck are you doing?
Is this Little-League? Tee-Ball? ANSWER ME!
Jesus tap-dancing Christ!
Cincinnati is a sub .500 team.
They have no pitching and a closer with a ERA over 12.
Their “offensive powerhouse” broke the NL strike out record tonight.
Are you fucking kidding me?
How could you squander 9 innings of 16 strike out, 1 run ball?
You fucking douche nozzles.
How long must this pathetic spectacle of ass-clownery continue?
Will the revolving door of suckitude EVER stop spinning?
Do you bastards even care?
I want some goddamn answers!
This season was the biggest choke in the history of Cubdom. A Sox fan who normally gives me endless shit, apologized to me. Not in a sarcastic way, in a genuine, sincere “I’m sorry they did this to you, again” way. She expressed concern and sympathy despite an entire season of rivalry and trash talking between us. That’s how bad it was. People who were here in ’69 said this season was worse. ’84? ’89? ’03? Not even close.
I turned on the radio to see if Ron Santo was still on the air knowing there was at least a 5 hance the Cubs just killed him. He was alive but the dejection in his voice was crushing. I felt nauseous. That what it's like to be a Cubs Fan. I promptly got hammered with my friends and commiserated on another in a long line of disappointing finishes.
They blew it. Pure and simple. They didn’t deserve it.
No lead off guy. No closer. A team full of power hitters and nothing else (a record of 18-38 without hitting a home run)
A 17 million dollar a year prima donna who sneezed himself from the three spot and cried all the way to a .252 average with 12 more K’s then he had hits.
Endless bitching about the pressures and media scrutiny.
Alou and Merker whining about a TV announcer? Is there anyone who has less of an effect on the game? The beer vendor is closer to the field of play.
THIS JUST IN: Alou has demanded that the Beer Guy be completely silent.
Team OBP: .328
Stolen Bases: 66
Strike outs: over 1000
This was not a play-off team.
But they were supposed to be. Everyone knew it. Preseason odds on Cubs winning it all; 8:1. By comparison, Yankees 10:1. This city was electric from Opening Day. April 5, 2004 and on. This was The Year. The Cubs arduous journey would finally be over. Chicago would have its first World Series since the end of WWII. All the pain of last season washed away. Then it came crashing down harder then ever.
Looking back it started in August. The 27 to be exact. The Cubs were at home playing the standard 2:20 pm Friday afternoon game against the Astros. The Cubs were 7 games ahead of Huston in the standings with 3 more at home they could have gained a suffocating 10 games on them. But they cracked. They fell apart. Kent Merker called the booth to whine about Chip and Steve in the middle of a game. Then he taunted the umpire and netted himself a suspension. The rest of the team folded. Collapsed. They were humiliated 15-7 and lost the next 3 of 4 games. They had the chance to end it, the didn’t do it. The gave Huston the Wild Card.
Over the next 31 games the Cubs had streaks of wins and amazing games that sucked me back in. I believed once again. Then they lost to the Expos. At home. Another great streak. Another miserable failure. It was the best and worst stretch of the season. A roller coaster of dizzying highs where you knew they could pull it out and gut wrenching lows when it seemed like they were just surrendering. By the last week of the year I was exhausted. Have you ever done that let’s break up let’s get back together dance with your girlfriend for hours and at some point you don’t even care anymore, you just want it to be over? That was the last month of this season. I just wanted it to stop I was tired of being dragged through the mud, only to be cleaned up and then promptly kicked in the sac. I was done.
Remembering they way I felt after last season, years before, and now again after this abomination of a season, I ask myself; Is it worth it? Can I really rationalize all the disappointment and anguish? If the Cubs were a girl I would have broken up with her long ago. And in the end does it even matter? Why am I living and dying, with every pitch while millionaires I don’t know play a game? Can’t I just stop caring? Can’t I find something else to do with the hundreds of hours I spend every year watching and reading and thinking and talking about something I have no control over? Can’t I just let go?
But the answer I keep arriving at is always the same.
No. I can’t.
Baseball is more than that. It’s even more than Sandberg and Grace, Harry Carry and The Seventh Inning Stretch, the Ivy and the Bricks, it’s bigger then The Cubs and their 96 year drought.
It’s Americas Past Time.
It’s Reggie and Nolan, Koufax and Gibson, Willie and Mickey, Babe and Joe D, Ty and Cy. It’s Wrigley and Fenway. Teddy Ballgame and the quest for .400.
It’s 511 wins, 59 scoreless innings, 84 straight saves, 2,632 consecutive games, and a 56 game hit streak.
It’s Sammy and Mac chasing Marris. Bonds chasing Aaron. And kids chasing a dream.
It’s Terrence Mann and The Corn Field.
It’s fathers and sons.
It a collection of memories woven into the fabrics of our lives. For me, I can pin point when it started. The 1989 World Series. The Giants and The A’s. The Bay Series. The Earthquake. An 8 year old boy sat on the couch downstairs with his dad, bet a nickel on the Giants, had his first sip of beer and listened to the stories of players he didn’t know in places he’d never seen and was suddenly aware that he was now part of something bigger. No matter what he and his dad would always have this. 4 games of the best memories of my childhood. I couldn’t turn my back on the game any more than I could on my family; it’s a part of who I am.
I’m like a hopelessly addicted crack head. I’ll follow all the trade talks make mental notes of whose available and talk with my friends about what they should do and come April, it will begin again. All the past will, at least ephemerally, wash away, The Ivy will start turning green and I’ll be right back swearing that “Next Year is Here.” My name is Cameron. I am a Cubs Fan. This is my life.
Just when I think I'm out, they pull me back in.
The Cubs just fucked up their chance at a post season by loosing 3 in a row the Cincinnati Reds.
A few select questions seem appropriate here:
Seriously? Did I just watch this abortion of a season?
Is it that hard to beat the fucking Reds? At home? Really?
This is a fucking play off race you jack-asses!
What the fuck are you doing?
Is this Little-League? Tee-Ball? ANSWER ME!
Jesus tap-dancing Christ!
Cincinnati is a sub .500 team.
They have no pitching and a closer with a ERA over 12.
Their “offensive powerhouse” broke the NL strike out record tonight.
Are you fucking kidding me?
How could you squander 9 innings of 16 strike out, 1 run ball?
You fucking douche nozzles.
How long must this pathetic spectacle of ass-clownery continue?
Will the revolving door of suckitude EVER stop spinning?
Do you bastards even care?
I want some goddamn answers!
This season was the biggest choke in the history of Cubdom. A Sox fan who normally gives me endless shit, apologized to me. Not in a sarcastic way, in a genuine, sincere “I’m sorry they did this to you, again” way. She expressed concern and sympathy despite an entire season of rivalry and trash talking between us. That’s how bad it was. People who were here in ’69 said this season was worse. ’84? ’89? ’03? Not even close.
I turned on the radio to see if Ron Santo was still on the air knowing there was at least a 5 hance the Cubs just killed him. He was alive but the dejection in his voice was crushing. I felt nauseous. That what it's like to be a Cubs Fan. I promptly got hammered with my friends and commiserated on another in a long line of disappointing finishes.
They blew it. Pure and simple. They didn’t deserve it.
No lead off guy. No closer. A team full of power hitters and nothing else (a record of 18-38 without hitting a home run)
A 17 million dollar a year prima donna who sneezed himself from the three spot and cried all the way to a .252 average with 12 more K’s then he had hits.
Endless bitching about the pressures and media scrutiny.
Alou and Merker whining about a TV announcer? Is there anyone who has less of an effect on the game? The beer vendor is closer to the field of play.
THIS JUST IN: Alou has demanded that the Beer Guy be completely silent.
Team OBP: .328
Stolen Bases: 66
Strike outs: over 1000
This was not a play-off team.
But they were supposed to be. Everyone knew it. Preseason odds on Cubs winning it all; 8:1. By comparison, Yankees 10:1. This city was electric from Opening Day. April 5, 2004 and on. This was The Year. The Cubs arduous journey would finally be over. Chicago would have its first World Series since the end of WWII. All the pain of last season washed away. Then it came crashing down harder then ever.
Looking back it started in August. The 27 to be exact. The Cubs were at home playing the standard 2:20 pm Friday afternoon game against the Astros. The Cubs were 7 games ahead of Huston in the standings with 3 more at home they could have gained a suffocating 10 games on them. But they cracked. They fell apart. Kent Merker called the booth to whine about Chip and Steve in the middle of a game. Then he taunted the umpire and netted himself a suspension. The rest of the team folded. Collapsed. They were humiliated 15-7 and lost the next 3 of 4 games. They had the chance to end it, the didn’t do it. The gave Huston the Wild Card.
Over the next 31 games the Cubs had streaks of wins and amazing games that sucked me back in. I believed once again. Then they lost to the Expos. At home. Another great streak. Another miserable failure. It was the best and worst stretch of the season. A roller coaster of dizzying highs where you knew they could pull it out and gut wrenching lows when it seemed like they were just surrendering. By the last week of the year I was exhausted. Have you ever done that let’s break up let’s get back together dance with your girlfriend for hours and at some point you don’t even care anymore, you just want it to be over? That was the last month of this season. I just wanted it to stop I was tired of being dragged through the mud, only to be cleaned up and then promptly kicked in the sac. I was done.
Remembering they way I felt after last season, years before, and now again after this abomination of a season, I ask myself; Is it worth it? Can I really rationalize all the disappointment and anguish? If the Cubs were a girl I would have broken up with her long ago. And in the end does it even matter? Why am I living and dying, with every pitch while millionaires I don’t know play a game? Can’t I just stop caring? Can’t I find something else to do with the hundreds of hours I spend every year watching and reading and thinking and talking about something I have no control over? Can’t I just let go?
But the answer I keep arriving at is always the same.
No. I can’t.
Baseball is more than that. It’s even more than Sandberg and Grace, Harry Carry and The Seventh Inning Stretch, the Ivy and the Bricks, it’s bigger then The Cubs and their 96 year drought.
It’s Americas Past Time.
It’s Reggie and Nolan, Koufax and Gibson, Willie and Mickey, Babe and Joe D, Ty and Cy. It’s Wrigley and Fenway. Teddy Ballgame and the quest for .400.
It’s 511 wins, 59 scoreless innings, 84 straight saves, 2,632 consecutive games, and a 56 game hit streak.
It’s Sammy and Mac chasing Marris. Bonds chasing Aaron. And kids chasing a dream.
It’s Terrence Mann and The Corn Field.
It’s fathers and sons.
It a collection of memories woven into the fabrics of our lives. For me, I can pin point when it started. The 1989 World Series. The Giants and The A’s. The Bay Series. The Earthquake. An 8 year old boy sat on the couch downstairs with his dad, bet a nickel on the Giants, had his first sip of beer and listened to the stories of players he didn’t know in places he’d never seen and was suddenly aware that he was now part of something bigger. No matter what he and his dad would always have this. 4 games of the best memories of my childhood. I couldn’t turn my back on the game any more than I could on my family; it’s a part of who I am.
I’m like a hopelessly addicted crack head. I’ll follow all the trade talks make mental notes of whose available and talk with my friends about what they should do and come April, it will begin again. All the past will, at least ephemerally, wash away, The Ivy will start turning green and I’ll be right back swearing that “Next Year is Here.” My name is Cameron. I am a Cubs Fan. This is my life.
Friday, 15 October 2004
Cameron is a fucking moron, disaster (temporarily) averted.
As many of you know I spent the weekend in Albuquerque. I have a rather amusing account of my travel.
My flight was scheduled to depart at 7:20 pm but I left my office at around 4:00 to avoid the rush hour cluster fuck on the train. Realizing I probably didn't need the jacket I was wearing I grabbed a backpack from my under my desk, stuffed the coat in, and headed
for the Orange Line. Unfortunately, the extra hour I allotted my self, served little purpose as the el was packed tighter then a Wrigleyville bar after a Cubs game (stupid Cubs). At one of the stops a girl in a pink jacket with a barbell through her eyebrow got on
and stood next to me. She was fairly attractive. Small frame, but a nice ass, blond hair and green eyes that glinted with mischief (read: chaos). I struck up a conversation. Her name was Erin, she was a student at DePaul and was on her way somewhere to visit someone, I don't know I kind of drifted in and out of the conversation as it was rather bland and she did little to increase my interest, she was not what I would call intelligent, but whatever, it beat staring out the window for 45 minutes.
We arrived at the airport and the hordes of people leaving the train caused me to lose her in the crowd, but I didn't really care. I lugged my suitcase up the stairs, across the moving walkway and toward the ticket line. Erin ended up behind me. We began conversing briefly before I was summoned to the next available agent. I checked in, smiled at Erin and went outside to smoke. When I was finished I wandered toward the security gate and noticed a familiar pink jacket a few people in front of me. I taped her on the shoulder and asked "are you following me?" She laughed and I suggested we get a drink before our flights, she agreed and we plodded toward the metal detectors and x-ray machines like cattle into a barn.
Having been through this farce many times before I had become an expert on expediting this ridiculous process put in place to create a false sense of security. I was ready, belt off watch and wallet in the tray, keys, cigarettes, lighter and change in my bag on the
rollers. I smiled at the security guard asked how she was and walked through the detection frame without incident. I moved to the end of the conveyor belt and
awaited my bag while I chatted with Erin. There was a delay and I looked toward the x-ray operator to see what was going on.
"John, we got something interesting here. Come take a look." I rolled my eyes as the large man sauntered over toward the viewing screen and the portly woman sitting in front of it. She pointed to something and John raised his eyebrows, put on some rubber gloves
and grabbed my bag from the machine.
"My phone charger" I remarked to Erin, shaking my head "they always think it's a bomb."
"Is this yours?" The security guard asked as he approached me.
"Yes, sir"
"May I open it?"
"Of course." I find pleasantness the best method of dealing with these people. Being standoffish only delays the procedures that are already aggravatingly time consuming.
John immediately went to the front pocket and pulled out some shoe polish
"Hey I need to get some of this, thanks for reminding me"
I forced a laugh and said "I forgot that was even in there."
He moved to the other pocket, unzipped it and pulled out my red handled butterfly knife.
"Fuck."
I turned toward Erin who had been waiting patiently behind me. Her expression was one of confusion, with a touch of fear.
"I have to go catch my plane" she said as she walked briskly away from a situation she no longer wanted any part of.
I shook my head, furious with my own stupidity.
"Can I see your boarding pass and ID?"
"Sure." I responded as I handed it over.
He walked over to a desk and made a call, all the while opening and closing the knife.
I am now officially, freaking out. Butterfly knives are illegal; attempting to carry them on a plane is even more illegal. Understand, I am not worried about going to jail so much as I am terrified at the prospect of having to call my mom to say, "Hey, I won't be in town this weekend. Nope, I got arrested for possession of a deadly weapon in an airport."
Those of you who know my mom understand this.
John the security guard begins to shoot the shit with me for a while. I am careful to seem frightened but not nervous and answer his questions appropriately. Give adequate information but don't babble. Don't use 10 words when 2 will do. Be succinct and to the point. At the same provide additional information and extrapolation when necessary don't truncate responses to open-ended questions. Most importantly make it appear that none of this careful, methodical calculation is occurring.
John is actually very calming and I think I will escape with out incident. I begin to settle down, and drop my guard a bit.
The conversation continues and I decide I will most likely be allowed to proceed to my plane, but out of the corner of my eye, I see three police officers approaching. A short, fat man with the requisite mustache, a lanky guy with a buzz cut and a woman wearing all black with a visible vest. My stomach begins to cramp. I feel ill. The fat one asks that I
turn around, I comply he grasps my forearm and I feel the distantly familiar and unmistakable cold metal crescent touch my right wrist, then clamp down. Then
the left. Shit. I turn toward the now bottlenecking crowd of people and notice a sea of faces pointing, whispering and silently judging me. I hang my head in disgust. While I am escorted down the hall John walks beside me flipping open my knife then closing it
despite the fact the he is obviously not proficient with the weapon. There is now no doubt everyone knows exactly what's going on. Thanks, dick.
I was led down the hall into the Airport Police Station where I was place in an interrogation type room, and un-cuffed. I was left alone for a moment and
called J who was picking me up at the airport in ABQ the conversation went something like this
Cameron: "Hey, there is a chance I won't make it in on time"
J: "What did you do, show up late?"
Cameron: "No, I kinda got arrested, I can't really talk but I'll keep you posted"
One of the officers returned and gave me a 2 page form to fill out, it consisted of basic questions like name address phone number, date of birth place of birth, parents names, social security number, etc, etc, etc. It was long repetitive and excruciatingly boring.
When I finished another cop entered and began interrogating me. He asked essentially the same questions that I had just answered on the form while the other guy checked it. Then came the amusing questions.
Officer: "Are you know, or have you ever been under the care of a mental health professional?"
Me: "No, sir" (again I was kissing as much ass as possible.)
Officer: "Are you involved with any of the following groups" listed off 10-15 groups I for the most part hadn't heard of mixed with a few cults and terrorist organizations
This whole fiasco took about an hour at which point the gave me my ID boarding pass and said "The weapon will be confiscated and destroyed"
Luckily because of my ridiculously early arrival, I still made my plane.
Thank god I’m white.
EDIT 10-28-04
Epilogue: As it turns out I am being fined $250 dollars for this, anyone who would like to contribute to this cause I am not proud and will accept donations. It may even be tax deductible. (Probably not)
My flight was scheduled to depart at 7:20 pm but I left my office at around 4:00 to avoid the rush hour cluster fuck on the train. Realizing I probably didn't need the jacket I was wearing I grabbed a backpack from my under my desk, stuffed the coat in, and headed
for the Orange Line. Unfortunately, the extra hour I allotted my self, served little purpose as the el was packed tighter then a Wrigleyville bar after a Cubs game (stupid Cubs). At one of the stops a girl in a pink jacket with a barbell through her eyebrow got on
and stood next to me. She was fairly attractive. Small frame, but a nice ass, blond hair and green eyes that glinted with mischief (read: chaos). I struck up a conversation. Her name was Erin, she was a student at DePaul and was on her way somewhere to visit someone, I don't know I kind of drifted in and out of the conversation as it was rather bland and she did little to increase my interest, she was not what I would call intelligent, but whatever, it beat staring out the window for 45 minutes.
We arrived at the airport and the hordes of people leaving the train caused me to lose her in the crowd, but I didn't really care. I lugged my suitcase up the stairs, across the moving walkway and toward the ticket line. Erin ended up behind me. We began conversing briefly before I was summoned to the next available agent. I checked in, smiled at Erin and went outside to smoke. When I was finished I wandered toward the security gate and noticed a familiar pink jacket a few people in front of me. I taped her on the shoulder and asked "are you following me?" She laughed and I suggested we get a drink before our flights, she agreed and we plodded toward the metal detectors and x-ray machines like cattle into a barn.
Having been through this farce many times before I had become an expert on expediting this ridiculous process put in place to create a false sense of security. I was ready, belt off watch and wallet in the tray, keys, cigarettes, lighter and change in my bag on the
rollers. I smiled at the security guard asked how she was and walked through the detection frame without incident. I moved to the end of the conveyor belt and
awaited my bag while I chatted with Erin. There was a delay and I looked toward the x-ray operator to see what was going on.
"John, we got something interesting here. Come take a look." I rolled my eyes as the large man sauntered over toward the viewing screen and the portly woman sitting in front of it. She pointed to something and John raised his eyebrows, put on some rubber gloves
and grabbed my bag from the machine.
"My phone charger" I remarked to Erin, shaking my head "they always think it's a bomb."
"Is this yours?" The security guard asked as he approached me.
"Yes, sir"
"May I open it?"
"Of course." I find pleasantness the best method of dealing with these people. Being standoffish only delays the procedures that are already aggravatingly time consuming.
John immediately went to the front pocket and pulled out some shoe polish
"Hey I need to get some of this, thanks for reminding me"
I forced a laugh and said "I forgot that was even in there."
He moved to the other pocket, unzipped it and pulled out my red handled butterfly knife.
"Fuck."
I turned toward Erin who had been waiting patiently behind me. Her expression was one of confusion, with a touch of fear.
"I have to go catch my plane" she said as she walked briskly away from a situation she no longer wanted any part of.
I shook my head, furious with my own stupidity.
"Can I see your boarding pass and ID?"
"Sure." I responded as I handed it over.
He walked over to a desk and made a call, all the while opening and closing the knife.
I am now officially, freaking out. Butterfly knives are illegal; attempting to carry them on a plane is even more illegal. Understand, I am not worried about going to jail so much as I am terrified at the prospect of having to call my mom to say, "Hey, I won't be in town this weekend. Nope, I got arrested for possession of a deadly weapon in an airport."
Those of you who know my mom understand this.
John the security guard begins to shoot the shit with me for a while. I am careful to seem frightened but not nervous and answer his questions appropriately. Give adequate information but don't babble. Don't use 10 words when 2 will do. Be succinct and to the point. At the same provide additional information and extrapolation when necessary don't truncate responses to open-ended questions. Most importantly make it appear that none of this careful, methodical calculation is occurring.
John is actually very calming and I think I will escape with out incident. I begin to settle down, and drop my guard a bit.
The conversation continues and I decide I will most likely be allowed to proceed to my plane, but out of the corner of my eye, I see three police officers approaching. A short, fat man with the requisite mustache, a lanky guy with a buzz cut and a woman wearing all black with a visible vest. My stomach begins to cramp. I feel ill. The fat one asks that I
turn around, I comply he grasps my forearm and I feel the distantly familiar and unmistakable cold metal crescent touch my right wrist, then clamp down. Then
the left. Shit. I turn toward the now bottlenecking crowd of people and notice a sea of faces pointing, whispering and silently judging me. I hang my head in disgust. While I am escorted down the hall John walks beside me flipping open my knife then closing it
despite the fact the he is obviously not proficient with the weapon. There is now no doubt everyone knows exactly what's going on. Thanks, dick.
I was led down the hall into the Airport Police Station where I was place in an interrogation type room, and un-cuffed. I was left alone for a moment and
called J who was picking me up at the airport in ABQ the conversation went something like this
Cameron: "Hey, there is a chance I won't make it in on time"
J: "What did you do, show up late?"
Cameron: "No, I kinda got arrested, I can't really talk but I'll keep you posted"
One of the officers returned and gave me a 2 page form to fill out, it consisted of basic questions like name address phone number, date of birth place of birth, parents names, social security number, etc, etc, etc. It was long repetitive and excruciatingly boring.
When I finished another cop entered and began interrogating me. He asked essentially the same questions that I had just answered on the form while the other guy checked it. Then came the amusing questions.
Officer: "Are you know, or have you ever been under the care of a mental health professional?"
Me: "No, sir" (again I was kissing as much ass as possible.)
Officer: "Are you involved with any of the following groups" listed off 10-15 groups I for the most part hadn't heard of mixed with a few cults and terrorist organizations
This whole fiasco took about an hour at which point the gave me my ID boarding pass and said "The weapon will be confiscated and destroyed"
Luckily because of my ridiculously early arrival, I still made my plane.
Thank god I’m white.
EDIT 10-28-04
Epilogue: As it turns out I am being fined $250 dollars for this, anyone who would like to contribute to this cause I am not proud and will accept donations. It may even be tax deductible. (Probably not)
Tuesday, 21 September 2004
More Cowbell!!!
Babies, before we're done here you'll all be wearing gold plated diapers.
Random Musings:
Hitting a ball into the corn at the Field of Dreams may be the single greatest moment in my life thus far, if my dad were there it would have been better, but all things considered it defiantly reaches the Pantheon of Great Moments.
Until last weekend I thought a girl turning into a lesbian, twice, and then sending a text message that said "BURN IN HELL" was a sign she wanted nothing to do with me, but a note taped to my bedroom door seems to say otherwise. This kind of shit could only happen to me.
I need to stop talking to myself out loud while walking the streets of Chicago. Maybe more importantly I need to stop talking to myself out loud about my need to stop talking to myself out loud while walking the streets of Chicago. It leads to very uncomfortable moments when there is someone with in earshot.
Somewhere between 5 dollar steak and dollar draft Mondays at Lion Head, cheap everything Tuesdays at Brehon's, dollar bottle Wednesdays at Kelsey's, dollar draft and $3 jager bomb Thursdays at Hogs 'n' Honeys, Friday and Saturday night have lost some of their luster.
Confidence is descent con movie in the same vein as Oceans 11. This was further bolstered by the fact that in my drunken haze I confused Ed Burns with Ben Affleck acting with "Damnit Damon, I wanted to be in that movie, too" fervor.
I don't care what anyone says, the Indiana Jones trilogy was the high water mark for Lucas and Spielberg.
Lesson Learned: Just because the mix disguises the taste of the alcohol, doesn't necessarily make it a good idea to continue to add booze until you notice it's presence, just trust me on this one.
With fresh ideas seemingly non-existent, would this be the right time to pitch my show in which 20 women vie for the heart of a pseudo-millionaire who turns out to be a syphilitic hobo? Would anyone not watch this?
If I knew then what I know now, I would have spent everyday of my childhood learning how to throw a knuckle ball.
Rooting against the Cubs is like rooting against Christopher Reeves walking.
Living in Chicago, I sometimes forget the Mid-West is essentially a expansive collection of crops and agriculture interrupted only briefly for metropolitan areas.
One of my favorite things about a road trip is the inevitable game of "Guess the Smell." Although it is usually simple animal manure or a skunk, every once in a while you are suddenly assaulted with some undistinguishable olfactory nightmare, and while the odor may be ephemeral you know you will never be the same.
Looking on the floor of my office I realize that if you removed the name, the covers of Maxim and Playboy are essentially interchangeable.
Having a Fantasy Baseball team may make me a nerd, but having a first place Fantasy Baseball team defiantly makes me "King Nerd" and yet it still doesn't seem to impress the women as much as I think it should.
I have reached the point where not only can I pick the chaotic chick out of a bar full of people, but I can also apparently telepathically channel her to come talk to me. My buddy George can attest to this.
As far as sports go there is not a better time of year than right now. (Late September/early October)
The French Dip is the most underrated sandwich in the country, while the Turkey Club may be the most overrated.
Speaking of sandwiches: It feels like an Arby's night.
I hope the "don't wear white after Labor Day" rule doesn't apply to me because I don't do laundry often enough to be able to obey it.
It turns out that the guy who sells knock off Movados up the street from my office offers no kind of warrantee.
I can't ever remember having a bad experience with Kool-Aid.
I hate Bernie Mac and the story line looks ridiculous and trite, but I'm still going to see Mr. 3000.
My friend Tim and I have worn identical shirts on two separate occasions and I think people are starting to talk.
If there is anything more degrading than laughing at someone after they punch you in the face because you were hitting on their girlfriend and being an ass, I can't think of it.
On the Monday directly following a miraculous Bears victory over the Packers in Green Bay, if you listen closely enough you can actually hear office productivity in Chicago grinding to a halt.
In a related story: J! E! T! S! Jets! Jets! Jets! . . . that's right, bitches 2-0.
Although I am unilaterally opposed to the Starbucks Empire in its entirety and it's unyielding attempt to monopolize the worldwide coffee industry as a whole, I must say they make a damn good frapachino.
Finally, it is imperative for every group of friends to pick someone who shall from this day forth forever be referred to only as "Scrotum" I'm not suggesting it. I'm demanding it. By the way if you're studying your group of friends and no one is a clear cut candidate for this new nomenclature, well, it's you Scrotum. Enjoy!
Random Musings:
Hitting a ball into the corn at the Field of Dreams may be the single greatest moment in my life thus far, if my dad were there it would have been better, but all things considered it defiantly reaches the Pantheon of Great Moments.
Until last weekend I thought a girl turning into a lesbian, twice, and then sending a text message that said "BURN IN HELL" was a sign she wanted nothing to do with me, but a note taped to my bedroom door seems to say otherwise. This kind of shit could only happen to me.
I need to stop talking to myself out loud while walking the streets of Chicago. Maybe more importantly I need to stop talking to myself out loud about my need to stop talking to myself out loud while walking the streets of Chicago. It leads to very uncomfortable moments when there is someone with in earshot.
Somewhere between 5 dollar steak and dollar draft Mondays at Lion Head, cheap everything Tuesdays at Brehon's, dollar bottle Wednesdays at Kelsey's, dollar draft and $3 jager bomb Thursdays at Hogs 'n' Honeys, Friday and Saturday night have lost some of their luster.
Confidence is descent con movie in the same vein as Oceans 11. This was further bolstered by the fact that in my drunken haze I confused Ed Burns with Ben Affleck acting with "Damnit Damon, I wanted to be in that movie, too" fervor.
I don't care what anyone says, the Indiana Jones trilogy was the high water mark for Lucas and Spielberg.
Lesson Learned: Just because the mix disguises the taste of the alcohol, doesn't necessarily make it a good idea to continue to add booze until you notice it's presence, just trust me on this one.
With fresh ideas seemingly non-existent, would this be the right time to pitch my show in which 20 women vie for the heart of a pseudo-millionaire who turns out to be a syphilitic hobo? Would anyone not watch this?
If I knew then what I know now, I would have spent everyday of my childhood learning how to throw a knuckle ball.
Rooting against the Cubs is like rooting against Christopher Reeves walking.
Living in Chicago, I sometimes forget the Mid-West is essentially a expansive collection of crops and agriculture interrupted only briefly for metropolitan areas.
One of my favorite things about a road trip is the inevitable game of "Guess the Smell." Although it is usually simple animal manure or a skunk, every once in a while you are suddenly assaulted with some undistinguishable olfactory nightmare, and while the odor may be ephemeral you know you will never be the same.
Looking on the floor of my office I realize that if you removed the name, the covers of Maxim and Playboy are essentially interchangeable.
Having a Fantasy Baseball team may make me a nerd, but having a first place Fantasy Baseball team defiantly makes me "King Nerd" and yet it still doesn't seem to impress the women as much as I think it should.
I have reached the point where not only can I pick the chaotic chick out of a bar full of people, but I can also apparently telepathically channel her to come talk to me. My buddy George can attest to this.
As far as sports go there is not a better time of year than right now. (Late September/early October)
The French Dip is the most underrated sandwich in the country, while the Turkey Club may be the most overrated.
Speaking of sandwiches: It feels like an Arby's night.
I hope the "don't wear white after Labor Day" rule doesn't apply to me because I don't do laundry often enough to be able to obey it.
It turns out that the guy who sells knock off Movados up the street from my office offers no kind of warrantee.
I can't ever remember having a bad experience with Kool-Aid.
I hate Bernie Mac and the story line looks ridiculous and trite, but I'm still going to see Mr. 3000.
My friend Tim and I have worn identical shirts on two separate occasions and I think people are starting to talk.
If there is anything more degrading than laughing at someone after they punch you in the face because you were hitting on their girlfriend and being an ass, I can't think of it.
On the Monday directly following a miraculous Bears victory over the Packers in Green Bay, if you listen closely enough you can actually hear office productivity in Chicago grinding to a halt.
In a related story: J! E! T! S! Jets! Jets! Jets! . . . that's right, bitches 2-0.
Although I am unilaterally opposed to the Starbucks Empire in its entirety and it's unyielding attempt to monopolize the worldwide coffee industry as a whole, I must say they make a damn good frapachino.
Finally, it is imperative for every group of friends to pick someone who shall from this day forth forever be referred to only as "Scrotum" I'm not suggesting it. I'm demanding it. By the way if you're studying your group of friends and no one is a clear cut candidate for this new nomenclature, well, it's you Scrotum. Enjoy!
Wednesday, 8 September 2004
Cameron + Drunk Chick = Mess
The other night I went to a "party" at my friend’s apartment. A few girls showed up and one of them was pretty cute (read: big tits) so I began to talk/flirt with her. Her name was [Not Important] and she was a shallow, vapid, shell of a person, but with really nice tits. One direct quote that should have tipped me off "I don't eat bread because it makes me fat." In and of itself it screams self-esteem issues and possible eating disorder but also take into account that on a "fat day" there was no chance this girl came in above 105lbs. Plus she punctuated this statement by taking a swig off a beer.
In order to distract myself from the glaringly obvious character flaws, I drank as much and as fast as possible and kept a keen eye on her jovial love bubbles. After a few more torturous attempts at conversation I wished her words were somehow tangible so I could rub her nose in them and hit her with a rolled up newspaper while shouting "No! That’s a bad girl. We don’t do that in the house." I fought back the urge to verbaly berate her mercilessly as I could tell she was into me, or she was hammered, probably a little of both, so I stuck around, oh yeah did I mention her tits? They were great.
I continued to feign interest and shat out a few classic lines that always seem to get the job done and it paid off. She ended up kissing me; we went into one of the bedrooms and continued. Her tits were as good as I had figured them to be but drastically out of proportion to her waif like body. She seemed a little timid at first so I "guided" her in the right direction and she ended up going down on me, for about 30 seconds.
Not only was it one of the worst bj's I have ever received, she apparently had way to much to drink and an extraordinarily sensitive gag reflex. She pulled back let out a strange guttural, animalistic sound and puked. All over my junk. I’m gonna pause here and let that soak in. After allowing the requisite time to process the horrible turn of events. I got up, told her to go, although in a much less friendly manner, and went to the bathroom that was thankfully attached to the bedroom and hosed off. She apparently left the apartment in utter humiliation.
When I walked back out her friend asked what happened, and after I relayed the story, peppered with as many derogatory remarks and obscenities as I felt were appropriate to illustrate my frustration, she caped off the incident with 6 little words that made everything worse:
"You know she's only 16, right?"
Yes I'm a bad person, yes I need to find out age before I do things like this, but I refuse to take full responsibility for what happened. What the fuck was a 16 year old doing at a party populated by people in their early 20's? Why was she wearing a low cut spaghetti- strap shirt and skin tight pants? Why did she kiss me and give me the "fuck me" eyes? Am I entirely to blame here? Or is this a gray area like a "No-Fault" traffic accident? Look I'll be honest with you, I really don't feel guilty about this, but I feel like I probably should and that is somehow worse. Can I get a ruling here?
In order to distract myself from the glaringly obvious character flaws, I drank as much and as fast as possible and kept a keen eye on her jovial love bubbles. After a few more torturous attempts at conversation I wished her words were somehow tangible so I could rub her nose in them and hit her with a rolled up newspaper while shouting "No! That’s a bad girl. We don’t do that in the house." I fought back the urge to verbaly berate her mercilessly as I could tell she was into me, or she was hammered, probably a little of both, so I stuck around, oh yeah did I mention her tits? They were great.
I continued to feign interest and shat out a few classic lines that always seem to get the job done and it paid off. She ended up kissing me; we went into one of the bedrooms and continued. Her tits were as good as I had figured them to be but drastically out of proportion to her waif like body. She seemed a little timid at first so I "guided" her in the right direction and she ended up going down on me, for about 30 seconds.
Not only was it one of the worst bj's I have ever received, she apparently had way to much to drink and an extraordinarily sensitive gag reflex. She pulled back let out a strange guttural, animalistic sound and puked. All over my junk. I’m gonna pause here and let that soak in. After allowing the requisite time to process the horrible turn of events. I got up, told her to go, although in a much less friendly manner, and went to the bathroom that was thankfully attached to the bedroom and hosed off. She apparently left the apartment in utter humiliation.
When I walked back out her friend asked what happened, and after I relayed the story, peppered with as many derogatory remarks and obscenities as I felt were appropriate to illustrate my frustration, she caped off the incident with 6 little words that made everything worse:
"You know she's only 16, right?"
Yes I'm a bad person, yes I need to find out age before I do things like this, but I refuse to take full responsibility for what happened. What the fuck was a 16 year old doing at a party populated by people in their early 20's? Why was she wearing a low cut spaghetti- strap shirt and skin tight pants? Why did she kiss me and give me the "fuck me" eyes? Am I entirely to blame here? Or is this a gray area like a "No-Fault" traffic accident? Look I'll be honest with you, I really don't feel guilty about this, but I feel like I probably should and that is somehow worse. Can I get a ruling here?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)