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.
Monday, 29 November 2004
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.
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