Thursday, July 19, 2007

Letters to the good people of the world: Chicago edition

Dear 60-ish year old man who was riding a bicycle along Lake Shore Drive while wearing only a thong:

I didn't need to see that. The image is forever burned into my brain, and I am terrified. Even as it was, you probably still felt imprisoned by the shackles of your thong, but my eyes will never be the same. At first I thought you were just wearing pasty white shorts, but then I realized that those, those weren't shorts at all. And then I wanted to turn the car into the lake and just end it all right there because I knew I couldn't go on. However, I will admit it had to take some courage to step out your front door like...that.

Yours in memory purging,

# # #

Dear Barry Bonds,

While I find it amusing you did not play (the booing must hurt your feelings and your knees), may I have some of what you used? Just a little bit? I'm having a difficult time surviving the rigors of sitting at a desk, and I need a bovine steroid-induced pick-me-up. Please get back to me. It's important. Oh, that's right. What are steroids? My mistake. I need some of that flaxseed oil that did this:

That would be so cool.

Yours in punishing the haters,

# # #

Dear sea gulls that invade Wrigley Field immediately after the game ends,

How is your species so in tune to the workings of a nine-inning baseball game? There are many humans who do not understand the game as well as you guys do. As soon as the third out of the ninth inning is made, your flock swoops in to partake in the forgotten peanuts, pop corn, cotton candy, stale beer and vomit that are left in the bleachers. I'm impressed and amazed.

Yours in eating other people's leftovers,

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

It was the greatest thing in the world two years ago. It is the greatest thing in the world now.

Unfortunately, it seems, the guy's Web site who created this work of genius, is no longer working. At least it made it to Youtube.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Middle of the night considerations while wondering why I don't just fall down when the earth spins round and round

For the past couple months, a single quote has flashed on the electric sign next to the elevators at my workplace.

"I don't believe in failure. It is not failure if you enjoyed the process." -- Oprah Winfrey

OK, yes. That is ignorant. So does that mean that if I had fun convincing an entire nation with fear and lies to join me in a crusade to invade a country that never threatened my country, say that it is going to be oh so incredibly easy, and then lose in an incredibly embarrassing fashion where many, many people die needlessly, that I am not a failure? (No, in that case, I reek of fail regardless of how many times I try to convince myself otherwise. But I had fun, so it's OK. And my daddy still loves me.) But anyway, hooray. I'm elated our standards are so low. Thanks, Oprah.

# # #

Do not attempt to speak to a cat in a fake, poorly enunciated Irish accent. It doesn't work. It's frightening to the cat and might induce vomiting on your shoes that are over there lying in the corner. That wasn't my experience, but Ralph (Wolfie) didn't seem impressed.

# # #

A simple excursion to Cracker Barrel for my grandma's 85th birthday last Friday included:

1) My mom seeing her friend in the parking lot--a friend my dad dated before meeting my mom whom he still holds many grudges against--and dad walking way, way, way out of the way to get into the restaurant without being sighted while mumbling all along the way about "Your mom better not invite her over to lunch."

2) A server who admitted he drank eight cups of coffee and, as a result, could not control the volume of his voice.

3) My grandma, who is one of the kindest people I know, giving me a look that could kill when I did not want any of her strawberry shortcake. I took a small bite so I would not have the misfortune of feeling her anger. The nicest ones carry the most unholy wrath when provoked.

# # #

Musician discovered tonight on the well-stocked iPod my brother expected me to buy from him for $250, but for which no money has yet to be exchanged nearly a year later: Sondre Lerche

Speaking of which, you know how some baseball teams allow their players choose a song to play when they come to bat? Mine would be Icky Thump.

# # #

Speaking of unholy wrath, the sponsored voice inside my head today is Lou Dobbs. (In case you were not aware, I rent my brain to various political talking heads for a fee. Some work with me better than others. But, dammit, why did I let Dobbs in there? I mean, the money is nice and all, but I shouldn't be whoring out my brain to just any loudmouthed commentator. But I suppose it's better than the day I let Bill O'Reilly AND Sean Hannity control my brain. It wasn't worth the tumors or all the babies they made me eat after stealing them from orphanages, which were set on fire.) For a split second there, I was truly outraged at the war on the middle class. Unfortunately, he is yelling at me too much, and I don't know what to do in my cash-driven schizophrenic state. If I'm not mistaken, he just accused me of being an illegal immigrant who loves communist China, and I have to go to sleep to get Dobbs out. It's really too bad. Had he been a little less forceful, I could have been on the border right now building a wall, fixing our broken borders. Oh well. Bye now.