It started out as a Cub blog with cuss words. I'm still cussin'; it's the Cub part I'm a little squishy on these days.

The Sloth is not intended for younger or sensitive readers!

Illini Basketball
Bruce, we gave you tha keys, and THIS is what you brought home?

¿Dónde está mi dinero, las rameras?

Site Meter

Thursday, January 26

Don't get me wrong...I'm really not upset by this

The First Amendment and the Internet has opened the door for all Americans to be seen and heard. Very little anymore can remain secret. Asshats are uncovered and revealed in the hoary light of day.

There are fundamentalist fucksticks, cracker-ass humpmunkeys, hyperparanoid war-monger asswipes, lazy shiftless welfare sucktards, stupid kool-aid swilling robosheep, and then as I discovered today, there are lousy no-good proto-ethnic meth-smokin' shit-eatin' piss-swillin' Sux fan rectums to deal with.

As if you people didn't have something better to do? Don't you have to run to the Gas City to pick mama up another carton of smokes, or maybe rotate the tires on the trailer?


Wednesday, January 25

Since Hendry is on vacation, I'm gonna write a joke

Ron Artest, Isiah Thomas and Chris Penn walk into a bar.

The bartender is a somewhat attractive woman who immediately announces "I have an MBA and I am a vice president of marketing. I only do this to pay the extra charges on my Blackberry bill. What will you have?"

Ron says that he has to meet with his bosses about 'some shit' later, so he will have a Sprite. Isiah asks for a Miller Lite in a plastic cup. Chris orders a shot of vodka.

The bartender pours the soda and the beer, and as she starts to pour the vodka, Chris swipes the bottle out of her hand and chugs it until he passes out and dies.

Isiah shouts at the woman, "You stupid bitch! Why the hell did you let him do that? You know what you need? Me! I'm in love with you. Let me squeeze your titties!"

The woman stares at him and screams "That's harrassment!"

Isiah says "I can't get no love from you today? I fucked over the CBA, the Indiana Pacers, and the New York Knicks. I'll fuck you over, too. Now get down here and suck my cock, that's all you ho's are good for."

Ron-Ron jumps up and gets in Isiah's grill and says in a low voice "You shouldn't talk to the woman like that."

Isiah then throws his beer cup into Ron-Ron's face. Artest then rips Isiah's left leg off at the knee, beats the rest of him to death, along with Ben Wallace's brother and a cameraman from WGN-TV. He then fishes a plane ticket to Sacramento out of his pocket and rips it to shreds, pulls on the front of his jacket, and yells "Queens Represent!"

Then a fruit bat flies into the bar and dumps right on top of Ron's head.

The bartender laughs. "Ha. They were right, son. You ARE batshit crazy!"

Ahh, I know it sucked. I'll go back to sleep now. ZZZZzzzzzzzzzz......

BTW: Chuck's cousin is an assistant coroner in Santa Monica, and he is helping with the Chris Penn autopsy.


Tuesday, January 24

You wanna laugh?

Mega-kudos to Scott G. F. for turning me onto this.

Why should I rack my brain while mopes like this are given write access to a major media outlet website?

Mr. Britt, what you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone who reads this is now dumber for having read it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.

Enjoy, before someone takes it down.


Monday, January 23

When Greater Men are girding their loins for battle, Jim Hendry shops the cutout bins

Wade Miller is a Cub.

For those fans of the Jim Hendry Annual Reclamation Project (2003 - Mike Sirotka, 2004 - Ryan Dempster, 2005 - Scott Williamson) 2006 is the Year of the Wade.

Perhaps Miller will be able to fill us in on the AssTrolls secret signs, and pre-game superstitions, since he himself claims he won't be back from labrum repair surgery until May, which means he won't throw a pitch until mid-July, and won't be effective until 2007.

So, fine, now we have our replacement when Maddux leaves. We still need another starter.

Monday's things I think I think

Once again, due to the onslaught of mindless right-wing jingoistic dogshit I have packing my e-mailbox, let me repeat: anyone that thinks this war is about Protecting our Freedoms is an assbag. Anyone that thinks that people who are against the war are also Against America are raging assbags. Anyone that thinks that people who are concerned about Iraqi civilians are also Against America are flaming assbags, and God help you if you have lost a loved one in Korea, Vietnam, or Iraq...if you have, I guess you are free to think what you want, to help you through it.

But what was going on in 1950 Korea that was a threat to American Security?

What was going on in 1965 Indochina that was a threat to American Security?

Hell, I myself will even admit that there is a very slight possibility that maybe just maybe there was some sort of terrorist training camp operating in Iraq, even though no WMDs were ever found there. Since the shit-eating turbanheads were able to come here and commandeer a few airliners and fly them into buildings, I admit there is a risk there. A risk that could have been eliminated with some decent intelligence and a few surgical strikes launched from a remote site.

The true test, to me, is whether or not I would be still sitting in the same place right here and now if we hadn't gone to Korea in 1950 (yes) or to Vietnam in 1965 (yes) or to Kuwait in 1991 (yes) or to Iraq in 2003 (yes). And if you honestly think otherwise, then you're a paranoid hyperfrightened assfissure.

Kobe Bryant

The following men have scored more than 68 points in an NBA game:

Wilt Chamberlain
Kobe Bryant
Elgin Baylor
David Thompson
David Robinson
Michael Jordan

I wasn't around for Wilt or Elgin, but they were both gods. I had heard one story about the Wilt 100, who was playing for Philly at the time, but their "home" game that night was in Hershey, PA. None of the other regulars felt like breaking a sweat that night, so they told Wilt to do all the heavy lifting.

MJ threw his 69 (insert blond white trash joke here) in against Cleveland, because they were Cleveland, and because they hadn't won anything yet, and he was trying to show the rest of his young team that they were on the brink of something special. The Davids were both similar in that they were outstanding talents who never really materialized, one due to his cerebrality, the other due to his cocainality. Both were waged in an attempt to win scoring titles, and as hollow as that is, neither rang as hollow as Kobe's 81 last night.

I don't know WHAT the fuck Phil's doing, it sure looks like he's just phoning it in. This isn't a budding star trying to show a young team the way. This is one man and 11 rejects, recreating. Kobe himself will tell you that he truly believes he HAS to score like that to win, and I believe that he believes. The true Selfish Self doesn't act out of malice; it acts purely on its own behalf, its need to be all and have all. He doesn't even know he's being selfish, he is so utterly wrapped up within himself. It doesn't even occur to him how he is cheating the other 11, how he is cutting the platform out under himself, he doesn't even THINK championships are won by teams. He should have taken up golf or tennis or track. He may be the most talented basketball player ever. He's also a throbbing ass-noodle.

The Cubs

I cannot believe Todd Walker is still here.

Maybe management thinks he's one of these guys that responds well to criticism, because if they're planning on using him this year, he's going to have to work his way through a lot of that. Whether they planned it or not, they've painted themselves in a corner.

Either they need to make him the starter at second, or they need to trade him. You CAN'T have him here to sit and fester. I myself would package him and either Rusch and/or Williams and/or prospects for a 200-inning starter, like Barry Zito, or whomever else is available. I don't feel either Rusch or Williams can go 200 innings or win 15 games, and if we could find someone that can...put it this way. What did the White Sux prove to us this fall? You can never have a mullet too greasy, or too much pitching.

Fuck the so-Called Farm System...we ain't getting no help from there. We need a real #3 or #4 starter.

Jenna Elfman

Even though her shows suck, and her movies suck, and her commercials suck, her body rocks. She's giving it another try tonight, where she plays a lawyer. Puhleeze, that's like Katherine Heigl playing a surgeon. No. Fucking. Way. But, she looks great trying.

UPDATE: oh yeah, Kobe? Chuck's haircut guy came to this country 11 years ago from Padua, Italy, where he cut hair for all the professional ballplayers (and their families), including Jellybean Joe Bryant and his son Kobe. What's more, Chuck's cousin's wife went to school at Lower Merion a couple of years before Kobe, but she would work as a math tutor there and she helped one of Kobe's girlfriends through Algebra 2.


Friday, January 20

Perhaps my favorite photo of all time

To this day, I can still work one out to her.

Funny thing is, I thought the "X-Files" was way geeky, and never watched a single episode. Anyone ever see her in person? No way she's that hot in real life.


Due to the unpredictable and entirely arbitrary nature of the Fun Filter here at work, The Uncouth Sloth is ok, but the Cubs Coven on Yahoo! Groups is not, for according to the Filter, it promotes Gambling and/or Fantasy. So, no, Stew, I can't go and say hello to my good friend Campojibwa, who only knows me as Mr. Gay Gome.

For those of you who are not aware of the influence of the Coven upon me, A brief synopsis: in the years back when Sammy Sosa was a 30/30 man, many of us non-Kool-Aid-swilling gentlemen were kicked out of every decent Cubs forum on the internet. So a very left-leaning attorney from Berkeley (redundancy alert!) started a Cubs forum on Yahoo!, and a slightly less left-leaning attorney from Iowa invited me to come to a very special place where there would be No Moderation on what you could say.

This very person also gave me the moniker "Uncouth Sloth" for driving some cracker crazy one month, for which I am forever in his debt. Hawkeye's debt, I mean. Not the cracker. He can suck black cocks in hell for all eternity, for all I care. But, even though I was irretrievably a Sloth, we still liked to use psuedo-witty handles for ourselves whilst arguing whether Ramon Martinez was a better utility backup than Delino DeShields.

One month, I was overly impressed with the Travelocity commercials, and decided to go as The Gay Garden Gnome. This was when (winking) Old Campo came aboard. Oh, he could tell you blood-curdling tales about Moose Moryn and TV siding salesmen wearing bad polyester slacks, and other great memories of the Golden Era before I was born. It's just that Old Campo had a few problems, not least of which his freeloading doper son, who stole his computer and sold it for airplane glue money, so Campo was limited only to his alloted computer time on Tuesdays and Fridays at the senior center. So the poor guy would be holding in his Cub load all week long, he'd get all backed up, and he only had an hour or so to shoot it all out.

Well, even if you are a pitiful typer like me, an hour seems plenty, but Old Campo has the arthritis in his fingers, from the years of bricklaying for the Chicago Diocese, so by the time he hunts and pecks his way for an hour, he's got ten ideas swimmin' around in his head. So focus is an issue for him. Suffice it to say, like me, his narrative would meander.

Also, since he doesn't have much time for typing, using the backspace key to wipe out his punk spelling and grammar was out of the question. So "memories" came out more like "mammarys".

Maybe they had a Fun Filter at the Senior Center, and maybe his doper son got off of the Crank and got his old man's PC out of hock. Maybe he just wasn't well, but years went by without hearing from him. But I guess he's back, and wants to share some old Cubs memories with his friend, the Gay Garden Gnome.

Except I guess it came out "Cub mammarys with Mr. Gay Gome". Which, even though as ZZTop would say in "Pearl Necklace", I can put up with anything, on the other side of deranged, a gay gome's mammaries are his own biznass, and I'm loath to discuss them.

So, Stew, please let the old gent know that I'm alive, and smiling even though I'm slowly falling apart. My ankle is killing me, my chest pains are getting worrisome, and my back aches like a sailor's hump. I'm sure he can relate to all of that.

Today's Six DegreesQuite uneventful, really. Chuck's wife has a garden, complete with a garden gnome, and the mold that produced it came from the same factory in Haiping, China, that made the molds that produced the TV version of the Roaming Gnome. So you could say they're brothers, or at least first cousins.


Wednesday, January 18

Just like Tommy, I'm glad Scrubs is back, too

Even ever since she was the substitute Becky on "Roseanne", I've always had a thang for Sarah Chalke. It must be some sort of running joke on the "Scrubs" set..."Do I have to lift my shirt up this week, or not?" They had a sweet little scene last night where she was parking with some guy, squirting honey on his chest out of a squeeze bottle, in her requisite bra...she really does have a cute rack. Not big at all, at all. "Scrubs", funny, smart, and Sarah's cute rack.

That's all for now.


You're still here? Why?

Oh. Yeah.

Chuck's wife's aunt and uncle lived on the same block as Markie Post once, and Markie Post, of course, is good friends with Sarah Chalke and plays her mom on "Scrubs" on a recurring basis.


Tuesday, January 17

Six Degrees of Chuck

Thank God Petra Nemcova survived the Asian tsunami last year.

During the Hank White Fan Club meeting Friday night at the CubsCon, Andy asked T. J. Brown and I what Chuck was like. Chuck, the proprietor of "Ivy Chat", is a neighbor of sorts with T. J., and I have had several lunches with the gentleman. All Andy knows Chuck as is the Guy Who Hates Corey, the guy who frequently picks fights with several of the more financially-challenged patrons of the Desipio Message Board, and the contrarian who sometimes is the only guy who quashes our enthusiasm about some chick the rest of us think is hot. Chuck, as you might imagine, is just a well-groomed Jewish guy with a fairly hot wife who is actually deaf, so she doesn't have to listen to his shit if she doesn't want to.

Of course, we kid because we care. He himself knows he way outkicked his coverage.

Anyway, both of us observed that he seems well-connected. At least, he gives you the impression that he is. He's definitely one of those "Don Zimmer? Yeah, my neighbor's daughter's husband used to walk his dogs when he was a kid" kind of guys.

We love him, we need him, we got to got to got to have more of him, so every day, I'm going to include the "Six Degrees of Chuck" on every post, to the best of my recollection from my conversations with him. I know you all will now read each and every one of my posts, front to back, to discover the connection between the main character and Mr. Chuck Gitles, Banker, School Board Member, Cub Fan and Mensch.

Let's try one out...suppose I write 350 words about Marv Levy, the 97-year-old Chicagoan who once again is working for the Buffalo Bills as their Head of Football Operations.

I seem to recall that Chuck's dad's dentist used to go to temple with Marv's brother.

But imagine if I wrote several paragraphs about Joey "the Clown" Lombardo, longtime fugitive from the law that was brought to justice over the weekend?

Well, One of Chuck's big clients at the bank has a plant in the same neighborhood as the Clown's redi-mix plant, and his client's sister once dated the Clown's brother for seven months. The families used to have block parties together in Melrose Park.

So, until I run out of recollections, or until Chuck tries to stab me with a cast-iron menorah sharpened to the tips, we'll examine the Six Degrees. Aloha!


Monday, January 16

Cubs Convention 2006 - Actual Itinerary

I really did not have to take any pictures this weekend. This picture, from "This Old Cub", pretty much sums up the Cubs Convention experience. People, jillions of people, standing in line waiting for something. I know the Tribune wants to a) make as much money as humanly possible and b) serve as many Cub fans as possible, but if they want to make this a truly enjoyable experience for all, cutting the number of passes they sell by a half would be a good first step.

If they then want to recoup the investment, and to be fair, it all goes to charity, then simply ask people to donate $5 per signature. I don't think this is too much to ask, and maybe this would prevent some of the leeches like the motherfucker in front of me who gave Bobby Dernier a whole stack of baseball cards and threw a tantrum when he wouldn't sign more than four. That way, far more people would get a chance to meet their heroes. I, for one, didn't get a chance to meet a single, solitary, current player. Plus, it would stick it to the parasites who sell autographs, who really have NO business being there.

Here is my actual agenda, and no names have been changed:

3:00 - I actually did check into my hotel (Club Quarters on Adams, a real bargain at $89) and I really did walk on a treadmill, not that I was going to need the extra walking.

4:30 - Walked through a fairly "refreshing" sleet storm to get to the Chicago Hilton. There were no strip searches or lines to get into the hotel, the one time all weekend. I was decked out in my Cub jacket, Maddux gray gamer, a coordinated logo t-shirt underneath, and my pass hanging off of my son's fake "bling" pimp necklace, and just on the stairs to get into the hotel alone, I came in probably 14th of the most gaudily dressed Cub fan.

Oh. My. God. You have never in your life seen so much cubbie blue and white double knit polyester stretched to the hilt. People, please. I found size 58 authentic jerseys in all three varieties, and without much effort. But there's a catch, as I will fill you in later. BUY STUFF that FITS! And, if you shrink it, or you grow, then BUY MORE!!! The Cubs, the Tribune, and the Sloth will thank you.

Anyway, I wanted to find some of my internet buddies, and where would be the first place YOU would look?

That's right, Kitty O'Shea's. Anyway, at that hour, the only person I remotely recognized was Dave Kaplan in a hideous tangerine sportcoat. I had a beer with Mark from Bourbonnais via Terre Haute, and hopefully he'll write back sometime soon, since I gave him one of my cards later.

5:00 - anyway, I had heard that the opening ceremonies munched ass, so I wandered down to one of the exhibition halls, and I started crying real tears, it was SO beautiful. Anything you could possibly think of that you could stick a Cub logo on, it was in there. And me, with my credit card just PULSING in my I took the punk way out. I called home, described the scene to my wife, in the hope that she would not object to my celebrating the occassion by spending $225 on a framed, signed picture of all the '69 Cubs lined up on the baseline on Opening Day. Then she unleashed the two icy daggers that plunged deep into my Cubbie Blue Heart.

Budget Cuts.

I picked up a couple of baseballs and a few photos (Santo, Wood, Dempster - none of which I even came CLOSE to having signed) and was walking out of the hall when I saw a bunch of people getting in line. So I asked the first guy I saw what the deal was. He said that this was the line for the 6:00 "Autograph Hunt" and if I wanted an autograph, that I should get in line now. Cool, I said, are you the back of the line? No, he said, he's the front of the line, Here's Yer Sign. The back is waaaaaaaaayyyyy out there...I started walking. Ten minutes later, at the back of the line, all the way in Terre Haute, I got in line, and told the guy in front of me that I Liked the Wizard of Oz.

6:15 - the line finally started moving back where I came from, and it turns out that the Autograph Hunt features such luminaries as Dave Kingman, Lee Smith, Gary Varsho, Mickey Morandini. I did meet Jody Davis, which was cool, and I could have met Fergie Jenkins, if I wanted to donate $20 to his foundation. I also could have met Bob Feller for a double sawbuck; if I donated $50, he'd let me play "Connect the Liver Spots" on his face with a Sharpie.

7:00 - the phone, which had been ringing in my pocket for hours, finally attracts my attention. It's Jason (Goatrider Famine), and he's standing in front of Cubs Bingo, do we want to get together and he'd pass out the bizness cards Kurt (Goatrider Death) mailed us? Sure, and I got there the same time as Byron (Goatrider Pestilence). I introduced myself to Famine, Pestilence, and Famine's wife, Leah.

Leah, she be cute. Reeeeal cute. Jason, he's a handsome man, too (but whoever told him that he looked like Matthew McConaghey probably went to one too many Joint Subcommittee Meetings). Jason did NOT shove me, and that was good. Byron, on the other hand, he, uh, took his cards and left. Me, Jason, and Leah went to go win fabulous prizes at Cubs Bingo, with Wayne Messmer.

7:45 - after 45 minutes of the worst bingo of my life (my card was so bad that when they had a game of Stand-Up, which is when you keep standing as long as they did NOT call a number on your card, they called 11 numbers before they got me, I was in the top 10, but out of the money), Leah said she was going to start biting people if we didn't feed her, so back we went to Kitty O'Shea's, which by now had all the ambience of Kam's on Saturday night during fraternity rush week. After getting elbowed and smacked into for about 90 minutes, they understandbly wanted to leave. I decided to take one more pass around when I found. Him.

Andy Dolan. The President-for-Life of the Hank White Fan Club. I made his dad buy me a beer right off, by saying please and thank you. I guess I didn't really have a good idea of what a Professional Smart-Ass looked like, but upon reflection, Andy looks exactly like a Professional Smart-Ass, and he had THE story of the weekend for me.

14,000 people scurrying about the Chicago Hilton like worker ants, and there's one pompous motherfucker getting a shoe shine in the middle of it all. Yep, Andy said, it was Tom Shaer. Anyway, the shine gets done, and asks Shaer for eight bucks. Tom digs into his pocket, and asks the shine if he has change for a hundo? Yep, that's Tom Shaer, Professional Pompous Ass.

No sooner did Andy finish his story, and we're choking with laughter, did we notice the Pompous Ass himself, standing 10 feet from us. He HAD to have heard us. So more laffs ensued. Unintentional comedy at its finest.

So was watching Dave Kingman working the chicks, with Clyde the Glide Frazier and Keith Hernandez closeby shouting "No Play for Mister Gray" into microphones. Bobby Dernier was there, of course, and even though he waved at us, he would NOT come any closer to us. Maybe he remembered last year, when Andy and his dad poked good-natured fun at him. We saw Man-Mountain Tim Stoddard seemingly buying drinks for hundreds of thirsty patrons, including Pompous Ass Tom Shaer. We desperately tried to trip Ronnie Woo as he walked by, and seconds later, another homeless black dude, not as well dressed but smelling as bad, had let himself in and was preaching to us. It seemed like an eternity, but was probably only 30 seconds, until Security came along and shoved his stinky ass out the door. All the time, my mom's words were echoing in my brain:

"Don't make eye contact. DON'T MAKE EYE CONTACT!!!!"

T. J. Brown, another Desipio Disciple and the President of the Glenbrook Powder-Puff Football Association, came by for several drinks. He was unavoidably detained covering an exciting Conant-Fremd tilt for the Herald, I think he said the score was 46-40. Yawn. Right before I left, Random Bloodshot Drunk Guy came over complaining that he had handed Glenn Beckert a ball and a pen for an autograph, and that Beckert had thrown both of them back in his face. He had his arm around me like a brother, and we were all nodding our heads, trying to avoid a drunken brawl. (This guy shows up later).

11:30 - back at my room, I keep myself up half the night with my noxious gas from my lunchtime Campbell's Chunky Chili. My-tee tastee. But, man, they HAD to have replaced wallpaper after I left.

SATURDAY 8:15 - back at it, in the Continental Ballroom for the Meet the Management conference. I had to make a decision based on something I had heard last night. Some women I was in line with were discussing getting Michael Barrett's autograph. They were planning on being there this morning between 5:30 and 6 to get in line.

When was Barrett due to sign? 11:30.

Right there, I decided that there was no way in God's green earth that I was actually going to get a chance to meet an actual player. If a Michael Barrett demands six hours of waiting, what does a Derrek Lee require? Anyway, I was able to get a seat up front as well as two extra to save for the first two friendly faces I saw. Five minutes later, I waved Leah and Jason (yep, she gets top billing) over.

The conference starts promptly at nine, moderated by Spike O'Dell and Andy Mazur. It's Dusty and Hendry, and after a few minutes, they announce that lines can form for questions. I get in about third, right behind some dude "Crawly" and in front of Jason and Al Yellon although at the time I didn't realize it even though he had his T-shirt on.

After Crawly got up there, and plugged his blog before asking his question, I figured I could, too. So when it was my turn and I mentioned I was from Goatriders, I heard grumbling from the crowd. I first decided to give the Spiker a shoutout, and he asked me if I wanted to take his underwear home to my mother-in-law. (When I told Steve Cochran from WGN about it later, he scrunched up his face and asked "Why? For some sort of bizarre science experiment?") Then I asked Dusty if he was planning on making a batting order this year and sticking to it.

He kind of softsoaped it, and said that he would have liked to have done it, dude, if anything would have worked. Actually, both of them said pretty much the right things, and I'm not saying this just because I got to give Hendry one of our business cards for a possible e-mail interview.

Jason asked a question about the top of the order that got the crowd riled up pretty good, so we were pretty proud of ourselves. The next guy kind of bitched and complained, and it didn't go over well AT ALL with that Kool-Aid crowd. I guess it's one thing to write it out here, and quite another to actually say it. By the time Al identified his web site and asked his question, we were getting quite a few grumbles from the crowd, "we" being the bloggers of the world.

After this session, I went to the bathroom, where I heard some yutz bitching about "If he heard ONE MORE dot-commer plugging his website I was just gonna..." and when I turned around, yep, it was none other than Random Bloodshot Drunk Guy. So I said, "Hey, at least I didn't bitch". There was some embarrassed silence, and he soon ducked his head and walked out.

There was one big thing that I knew all along, but have lost sight of the last few years...maybe the "fans" that you meet in the bleachers, and say that "they're fans, fer shuuure", maybe they have access to a computer. THESE people at the convention, most of these hard-core Cubbie Blue geeks, do not, obviously. I saw exactly ZERO hot bleacher babes at this function: Jason's wife was about as close as it got. So my seven year struggle (so far) to eradicate Ignorance and Misinformation amongst Cub Fans on the internet has largely been in vain, for I saw at least 10,000 people this weekend, and you figure there are many, many times more who are too old, too young, live too far away or are too scared of the "big city" who did NOT come to the convention, who do NOT use the internet, who I'm NEVER gonna reach, and who are going to continue to swill all the icey-cold Blue Kool-Aid Hendry and Baker can pour.

Oh, BTW: Byron? Showed up a half-hour after stuff started, got in line to ask a question, and they cut off the line right in front of him. Good Grief!

10:30 - back downstairs where the autograph "lines" were happening. I kept looking for the "Express Pass" machine like they have at Universal Studios. I ran into Andy for the first of several times, and he was just beaming after the purchase of his "Blanco" locker nameplate. I was (genuinely) happy for him, we made some snark about the wait for a driver's license, and then I bought a italian sausage for breakfast.

12:00 - after the "27 Outs" seminar with Z, Dempster and Rusch, I went back to the bathroom to release the remnants of the morning's venti w/lowfat and Equal, where I was rudely Shoved Out of the Way by two members of security...seems that Z, Dempster, and Rusch needed to take a leak, they were going to use This washroom, and that I needed to Leave, now. Meet The Cubs Up Close and Personal, my fucking ass.

1:30 - after the "Voices of the Cubs" segment with Len, Bob, Pat and Ron, which was pretty damn funny and very enlightening (see GROTA), it was time to bid the Convention adieu. I walked back to the parking garage, paid the $41 (!!!) and drove back home without touching the brakes once.

So, who was cool?

Andy - yep, smartasses are born, not made
T. J. - yer a fine looking man in yer own right
Jason and Leah - it was a pleasure. Let's get together again.
Al Yellon - a seemingly happy guy. Greeted me warmly. We've had our philosophic differences concerning our favorite ballclub, but a good man.
Bob Dernier - I hope next year he won't be so afraid of us
Kurt - thank you a MILLION, man, for getting us the passes, sending us the business cards, and making it possible. We got the name out. Can't wait to see my cellular bill next month.
Jim Hendry - unlike the rest of his staff, he hung out there like a man
John Williams - one of the two WGN guys (Steve Cochran was the other) who literally spent HOURS talking to everyone who would come up to him. Very human of him, I'll be sure to tell him so later. He MC'd the "27 Outs" thing and asked Z, who has three young daughters, if he was going to try for a son. "No," groaned Z, "thee factory ees closed".
Mickey Morandini - he wanted to see pictures of the basement. Wonder if he has a website. Begged a woman for cookies.
Jody Davis - was very nice when I got to meet him. I'm going to stalk him a little this summer in Peoria.
Ryan Dempster - wore an Urlacher jersey. I wish I could have bought HIM a Molson's. He's the man.

The Top 5 Reasons Why the Bears Lost

Later on in the next couple of days, I plan to post my Cubs-related thoughts pertaining to the Kubs Kool-Aid Konvention on GROTA, and my non-baseball related thoughts right heah. But I just wanted to real quick list my top five reasons why the Bears lost last night, in order on increasing importance.

5) If or when the next time Rex Grossman gets to start a playoff game, he won't suffer from spastic colon for the first 25 minutes.

4) P'nut Tillman is THE most Overrated Bear, by far, and only one guy is remotely close.

3) That guy is Mike Brown, who makes great things happen when he's in there, but increasingly he isn't. The second best thing coaches like is guys that make plays. The best thing coaches like is knowing who they can count on. It was the punk move to sit out with an injury, and it hurt everyone else in the secondary, making who was left look terrible. If yer injury-prone, then management better look somewhere else to a more dependable guy. This also applies at quarterback.

2) Drafting Curtis Enis Benson instead of a wide receiver was the worst move Jerry Angelo has made since he took over the job. Lucky for him, this year, he won't be tormented over having a high draft pick.

1) The injury to Alex Brown that took him out of the game and eliminated the best pass rusher they have was the single worst problem the Bears suffered from yesterday...huh? He was there? Oh. I'm sorry.


Friday, January 13

Cubs Convention Itinerary

This here, this is what it's all about. Horrifically dressed fanboys and sloppy sweaty hogs with stringy hair and fat floppy breasts, myself included, all jammed together in a decaying hotel downtown. I sure hope they have a strong ventilation system.

Well, thanks to Kurt, who took one for the team, and ordered us all Kubs Konvention passes, while he himself is stuck somewhere in the Great White North brewing double-decaf-mochachinnos for ungrateful Canucks. I've had months to plan my weekend, my first Konvention, and for Kurt, I'm planning on doing it right. Assuming that security at the door will be equivalent to that at Gate B at Wrigley, I present, to you now, my agenda for the 21st Annual Cubs Convention:


1:30 - blow out of work, go to my car, scrape the inch-thick coating of ice and shaving cream left over from my son's last Den meeting off my window. Daddy's goin' downtown!

3:00 - check into swanky 3 1/2 star hotel that I got at the last minute on Priceline. If you're lucky, like 1 out of 100,000 lucky, Captain Kirk Himself, Bill Shatner, actually personally e-mails your confirmation number. He said something that he hoped that I'd have a good time during my stay in (fill in the blank) Chicago, at least as good of time as he was having right now, with his wife. He really got lucky with THIS wife, he continued, for she was a real angel in the bedroom and a real whore in the kitchen.

So I replied, "Begging your pardon, Mr. Shatner, but isn't that the other way around?"

He wrote back, "Ha! Not THIS wife!! Have a good time..."

3:30 - walk on treadmill in fitness center. Unfortunately, I'm NOT making this one up.

4:15 - begin walk over to Chicago Hilton.

4:17 - arrive at Chicago Hilton. Get in line for mandatory cavity check by event security.

5:00 - opening ceremonies begin, I'm still 1,100 people back in line for mandatory cavity check by event security.

5:30 - ceremonies end with the introduction of the Cubs' most important acquisition, new starting left fielder Marquis Grissom, because he's been through the wars, dude. I finally pass through event security and immediately seek out vendors selling post cards with Chip Caray's autograph.

6:00 - meet up with Jason and Byron, get shoved for checking out Jason's wife. Event security quickly intervenes.

6:05 - out onto street. Must find way to sneak back into the Hilton without being seen by event security. Walk around back to the alley, where I observe tall skanky blond smoking a J with two Mexican busboys. She says she owns the place.

6:30 - 2 joints later, new friends Manuel, Jose, and Paris (no, really) get called back into kitchen. I follow them in like I belong. After 20 minutes of walking through a byzantine corridor of false walls and broom closets, I run into Jock Jones and LaTroy Hawkins, of all people, playing tonk on a cheesy bar table in a hallway. I don't DARE tell them my name, I just ask where the shindig is.

7:05 - I elbow my way over to where the SportsCentral Live show is being done. Off to the side, I see Len Kasper and Bob Brenly about to be interviewed, and immediately behind them is a guy and his dad wearing "Hank White Fan Club" t-shirts, trying to look important. I shit my pants when the guy and his dad are brought to the microphone to say something snarky to Middle America.

7:50 - It appears Byron has won a round of Cubs Bingo. Man, he's happy. I pretend I've never met him.

8:30 - after asking a visibly bored Ryan Dempster if he would want to do an e-mail interview for GROTA, he hands me a card with one of them fake e-mail addresses like we used to do in the Daily Dose, and I try to make my way to Kitty O'Shits.

8:35 - phone rings, it's "lilv" from the Coven, and it turns out she's, like, standing right behind me.

8:36 - phone rings, it's Mrs. Sloth, wanting to know who was on the line when she tried to call a minute ago. Just one of my little internet friends.

9:05 - we're all crammed into the bar, just me, Byron, lilv, lilv's friend, Jason, Jason's wife, the guy and his dad, Len Kasper, Tom Shaer, Sharon Panozzo, a big stuffed Cub bear for the Panozz's niece, Robin Earl, Rusty Kuntz, Miguel Dilone and his track coach, Juan Cruz and the gas face from a few years back, LaTroy, Jock, Ryno, his wife, his bodyguard, Brian Urlacher, Paris Hilton, Miguel y Jose, three of Urlacher's kids, Todd Walker and his brother-in-law Chad Hutchinson, their agent and the guy who sold their agent his current mobile home.

Naturally, who's buying all the drinks? The guy who makes the least amount of money out of all of us. My wife is going to be SO PISSED when this bill makes it home.

? - stumble back to 3 star hotel, they lost a half-star when the treadmill broke down after my workout.


2:30 PM - wake up, freak out, miss the Q&A with management, miss all the autograph sessions, miss "Celebrating 20 years of Vine Line" with my personal hero, Carrie Muskrat, try to pay for my valet parking, have my credit card be rejected. Sell one of my jerseys to some other fat slob to get my car out of hock. Drive all the way home without tapping the brakes once.


Thursday, January 12

Things like this make me wonder WHY in God's name we even bother

From Illinois, where they close the Dairy Queens from November to March.

The latest Islamic Hajj Stampede happened yesterday. Somebody dropped a suitcase, and hundreds of people died. And, no, the suitcase was not armed with plastic explosives, nails and shrapnel.

In case yer not up on yer Middle Eastern events, every year, over 2.5 MILLION people congregate to Mecca, which is about the size of Soldier Field. Well, everyone HAS to do the same things at the same time, and it seems like every year, there is a stampede. One year, someone yelled 'fire' in a tunnel, and thousands died. Another year, a bridge collapsed under the weight of about 100,000 people, which was about 50 times the weight the bridge was meant to hold. Thousands more died.

This year was the third time in 15 years that there was a stampede at the 'stoning ritual', where everybody at once mills about to one of 20 some pillars to another, and they each throw a stone at each pillar to ward off the devil. As you can see from the picture, there isn't a whole lot of area for the stones to land safely. It reminds me of the old joke about the Polish firing squad, who completely surrounded the condemned, opened fire, and shot each other to death.

Anyway, in the procession, somebody dropped a suitcase, and the resultant pileup killed a yet uncounted number of pilgrims.

Once again, let's review:
1) 2.5 million people, 99% of whom think that soap & deodorant are tools of the American devil, congregate every year in a town the size of Mayberry.
2) Every year, somebody does something completely trivial which ends up in the senseless death of masses of people.
3) These folks are all good with that.

The answer, of course, is that We're To Blame. Yep, it's the Evil Americans that kill the thousands of holy Islam pilgrims, just like we're to blame for everything. That's why they like to strap explosives on themselves and walk into police stations and restaurants and other public places, filled with THEIR OWN PEOPLE in nearly all cases, and blow themselves up.

Please, please, please. These people are from Fucking Mars. They're NOT like us. Can't we just leave them alone???


Tuesday, January 10

Special Bruce Sutter Hall Of Fame Edition

Cool. Now I have an actual Polaroid of a Hall of Famer, wearing a cheezy basketball uniform, standing next to me, wearing a cheezy leisure suit.

In case you don't know that story, briefly, the Cubs used to trot out several of their players every winter to barnstorm the midwest, playing in high school gyms, for charity. In 1977 they stopped in beautiful Black Lung, where MY heroes played a roster of my junior high and high school coaches. Think about how much things have changed: both Reuschels, Ray Burris, Mike Krukow, and Bruce Sutter came to MY small-ass town to play basketball. That is akin to Prior, Zambrano, Glendon Rusch and Dempster coming to Corn Hole to play a bunch of resentful frustrated ex-jocks who would probably love nothing more than the chance to cripple a pro athlete with a hard foul.

The Cubs won, BTW, on a long jumper at the buzzer by Big Daddy Reuschel, who was in fact the Truth on wood as well as a mound.

Anyway, for those of you under 35, you are probably wondering why Bruce Sutter got elected to the Hall today. He wasn't a freak of nature, like Hoyt Wilhelm, or the first modern relief pitcher with a handlebar stache who pitched in a bunch of World Series, like Rollie Fingers, nor did he win 100 games as a starter, beat alcohol and become probably the greatest career closer ever, like Dennis Eckersley.

But you have to understand that his career was almost like one of those bad Disney baseball movies. He didn't invent the split-finger pitch, but nobody threw it better. When he came up with that pitch, in a desperate attempt to save what seemed to be a lackluster career, it was like watching "Flubber" or something on TV. NOBODY could touch that pitch. It literally looked like it rolled off of a table, and he never, ever hung one that I can remember.

For about three years, until he finally broke down, came back too soon, and was given up on and traded, nothing was as automatic as Bruce Sutter, and nothing was as amazing as watching him take on the biggest and baddest. The only reason whatsoever that the Cubs were semi-respectable in 1977-79 was he. Once he left town, what was left over was probably the worst Cub team in history. If the Cubs could make it to the seventh inning with a lead, they usually won in those days. It was a testament to how shitty their starting pitching was at that time, since they probably played to 10 games BELOW .500 in those three years.

Sutter would come on in the seventh inning, eighth at the latest most days, with runners in scoring position. The first few games in 1977, when it was a complete surprise, batters can be excused. After that, the whole fucking league knew it was coming. Batters knew that what he threw would look like a straight meaty, cheesy fastball down the middle, and they knew that 18 inches before home plate, the fucker would dive like a kamikaze. The Key to the Whole Thing was, all you had to do was take it for a ball, since it would end up at your feet. But, guys just could not resist, and to me that was the most amazing thing, that so many guys killed themselves trying.

I watched Sutter strike out the side in nine pitches, and not a single one of them a fastball. I guess he had another breaking pitch of some sort, not that I ever remember him using it until he was injured. Most times, he would start you off with something around the plate, which batters would take, and then whack themselves in the head for not hitting the cookie. Then the batter would dig in, and jerk their backs out trying to reach the next two. If he thought you were going to sit on the first-pitch cookie, well he'd just splitter you three times.

He was unstoppable, deadly, out of his freakin' mind for three years with us, then as usual, we traded him for Leon Durham (how did THAT turn out?) and he went on to save bunches more games in a more conventional manner for the Deadbirds and the Braves. He deserves to be there, if for no other reason that he was absolutely unique, and that he made an impact on the game for all eternity for all of us who saw him. I don't know how else to put it.

This Is Just Not Marcus Vick's Week To Quit Sniffing Glue

ALEXANDRIA, VA (UPI) - America's Baddest Man, Marcus Vick, has run afoul of the law yet again. So far this week, the younger brother of Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick has been kicked off of the Virgina Tech football team for an accumulation of civil and team violations, culminating with lying about an apology for his stepping on All-American defender Elvis Dumervil of Louisville during the Gator Bowl. Then, he was arrested for pulling a gun on three teenagers who were taunting him in the parking lot of a McDonald's in his mother's hometown of Camden, Va.

Last night, Vick, 21 and free on bail, was arrested yet again for attempted gang violence, criminal trespass, indecent exposure and resisting arrest by Alexandria police officers called to the scene at the football field of T. G. Williams High School. Vick was allegedly wearing only an athletic supporter while wandering around on the field. Vick was observed by neighbors shouting code signals similar to gang slogans, loudly in a state of undress. Vick later denied shouting gang slogans, instead, he referred to them as "pro-style football plays, baby".

When officers tried to restrain him, Vick shouted "Remember the Titans" as he knocked officers down several times. Vick is 6'1", 210 pounds. T. G. Williams High School was featured in the Walt Disney Movie "Remember the Titans", about the school's first racially integrated football team, which overcame adversity to win the Virginia state championship in 1971. It is believed that Vick had seen the movie, perhaps as recently as yesterday in the DVD unit of his 2005 Hummer H2, which was parked in the end zone of the stadium.

Vick refused a breathilyzer test at the scene, but officers reported smelling a strong alcoholic smell on his breath. Several bottles of Hennessey brand cognac were found on the floor of Vick's vehicle. He was held briefly at precinct HQ, where he was released on an appearence bond.

When pressed for comment, Vick stated that "he was going to the next level, baby."

Bad "True" News from the Sun-Times

On the article chronicling the trade of Corey Patterson, it was opined that at this point, the pieces of the 2006 starting lineup are in place. So, guessing what the Dustbag will do, this is Your 2006 Chicago Cubs Batting Order:

CF Lucky Pierre
2B Second baseman du jour (Neifi!, Walker, Hairston)
1B D Lee
3B Ramirez
RF Jock Jones
LF Murton Mabry
C Grin & Barrett
SS Cedeno

In my world, I bat Murton second, the catcher sixth, Cedeno seventh and Neifi! eighth, except that I would probably play Walker leave the batting order as is.

The point is, is this enough to win a division? The answer is, I suppose, if we can get 18 Wins from Zambrano and Prior, 15 from Wood and Maddux, and 10 from Rusch. That's 76 wins from your rotation, which is unheard of these days, and awfully presumptuous. Of course, I meant to be presumptuous, so you could see just how stupid it all sounds.


Monday, January 9

Is this the end of the Rally Fisch?

Tell me, what does her persistent wearing of pearl necklaces say to you? Think mama likes it when you nutt all over her chest?

Corey Patterson is gone, and small wonder. In the end, all the Great Jim Hendry got for him is a mediocre SS prospect and a pitcher who has made it all the way to low Class A after only six years in their organization! Every year, we look forward to the Trade That Hendry Has To Make, and this goose cooked himself the day he claimed that nobody in the organization ever told him to cut down on his swing, or widen his stance. I mean, I'm willing to believe the power trio of Dusty, Sarge, and Gene Clines may have forgotten to pass such wisdom on to Young Corey, but I'm pretty sure I have seen in print the exhortations of several Cub employees in the past, whereupon he was asked to do just that. It may have been pre-Dusty, who knows? But I know I've seen it.

So Corey is a stinkin' liar, and of course, the true tragedy of it all is NOT that MacFail and Hendry strung us along for years, "waitin' for Corey and Hee Seop Choi". It turned out that Choi has holes in his swing big enough to drive a Hyundai through, and that Corey made the Great Swinging Sammy look like the paragon of patience in the batter's box.

The tragedy is not that Patterson is going to go on to fame and fortune for some other less deserving group of fans. If he even reaches the potential of the great Gary Mathews (Junior), then I for one will be pleasantly surprised.

No, the tragedy is that the cutie-sweet attainable-hot Gail Fischer is probably going to be breaking her contract with Comcast for an assignment in Baltimore soon.

Good Lord. I ain't used to this

I'm way too foggy yet this morning to write anything meaningful, but I felt compelled to get out here today and acknowledge the Illini's loss to Steve Freaking Alford's Hawkeyes. Fucking Chuck is gonna be insufferable today.

Hopefully THIS year's loss is out of the way early.


Sunday, January 8

Friday, January 6

I just HAD to cut in with this

Why would anybody in their right mind give a flying rat's fuck about Manny Ramirez?

I just happened across this: because in 13 years, he has over 435 dongs, over 1,400 RBI, and is hitting .314, and does not appear to be slowing down in the post-steroid age.

God love a Duck, but the man can rake.

No pictures yet again today

The big fat sweaty guys ARE done with the basement, it's just that they ended up staying pretty late again last night, and by the time we got down there, it was too late to put everything back the way it was, and take pictures for you all. I'll get the chance this weekend, I promise.

The Tribune is reporting this morning that there is an imminent trade of Corey Patterson to the Orioles for a minor leaguer who is "not one of the top five or six prospects" according to O's management. Well, there was a period of time this off-season where we all thought that he would be non-tendered on Dec. 20, but he was in fact offered arbitration, where he stood to make no LESS than 80% of $2.3M, which is over $1.8M. I mean, maybe he was worth nothing before 12/20, because you figured he was going to get let go, anyway. Just because they offered him the chance to make at least $1.8M this year, does that make him any more valuable?

I know some of you would be estatic to get ANY sort of a prospect for him. Others, including myself who have totally bought into the Corey Hype, might be royally pissed off at Hendry for flushing this guy away like this. My first reaction was mild anger, that this is all Hendry thinks he's worth. But considering that he absolutely CANNOT play for a laissez-faire manager like Dusty Baker, that a change of scenery for him is a good thing for all of us, and finally considering that in the oft chance that he is, in fact, Good, that he'll be good in the other league, maybe it isn't such a bad thing, and not worth a bitch.

What is worth a bitch today is Pat Robertson, and them like him.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a member of the Likud. I don't really know that much about Ariel Sharon, except that he seems like a guy who cares a lot about his country. He might be a raging asswipe. But to suggest, as Robertson did yesterday, that he deserved to suffer a massive stroke because he's involved with "separating God's Land, as it reads in the Bible", well, plainly that's just simple ignorance.

The MAIN thing I am completely, utterly fucking sick of in this country is the notion that "My Christianity is better than Your Christianity". What Would Jesus Do? I doubt that He would fucking wish harm upon someone because they didn't worship the same way He did. In fact, the Jesus I know, and the Christianity I know, preaches Tolerance, Forgiveness, and Acceptance along with Justice. And Truth, don't forget Truth. There are simply too many sons-a-bitches anymore who have been running scared since 9/11, and have been waving their Born Again choads in our faces, and making things difficult for all of us.

It's you intolerant fucks who have started ALL of the wars in this world, have stirred up ALL of the anger in this world, and in my mind, are the source of ALL of the evil in this world. Pat Robertson and his ilk are little different, in my mind, than al Qaida, the Taliban, and all the other religion-based terrorists in this world. Which is to say, all the terrorists in this world.


Thursday, January 5

The C.U.B.S. room is not done yet

The big fat sweaty guys (and consider the source, so these dudes are TRULY Fat and Sweaty, Joe Borowski doesn't sweat enuf to fit in with this crew) aren't done with the carpet yet, but they will be tonight, and then I'll have some pictures.

Next, I'll be magnanimous: Carlos Zambrano's Dad, if you want Lindsay Lohan and her freckles that spread all over her body like leprosy, take her. If she comes up to me anytime soon, and begs: "Sloth, Take me, I'm yers", I'll politely decline and say "Nope, but can I interest you in the father of a crazy Venezuelan?"

Now, if Maria Sharapova makes the same plea, sorry, CZD, yer out of luck. All mine. She's on a billboard over the Tri-State, just past the Irving Park exit southbound. It's for Tag-Heuer watches. It's on a curve. I'm not the only one out there staring at her, crossing into other lanes of traffic. Ain't safe.

Last pointless point - BST went on a rant today about kettle-cooked potato chips, and the effect they have had on the marketing plans of a major oil company. Which got me going at lunch with three other fat guys, and the topic came around to "flavoring" of kettle chips. Tommy hasn't responded to my e-mail which pointedly blames him for the failure of my latest diet, but I'm sure what little kettle chip opinion I can offer today would suit him.

It's not a decision that should be taken lightly, if you are a purveyor of kettle chips, on whether or not you should flavor your chips. It is very hard to improve on the heady taste of thick crunchy potato in a coarse salt with pronounced oil flavors. It is worthless to season your chip with a weak, subtle seasoning that may work just fine on a thin, crispy Lay's chip.

If yer gonna season yer chips, then the taste needs to be bold, to compete with the coarse salt and the thick cut of the spud. A BBQ seasoning must be tangy AND spicy. A light powdering of cheese flavoring will not do: it should be a sharp cheddar or otherwise highly flavored variety. An onion chip should actually feature fibers of real onion, like a packet of onion soup.

In any case, a seasoned kettle chip should provide a real opportunity for secondary lickage. In other words, The seasoning should be applied thick enough for a substantial transfer on the fingers of the eating hand, so much so that they cannot be wiped clean with a dry paper napkin. Moisture must be applied, such as that which is found under a faucet or hand sterilizer, if you must, or most ideally inside your mouth during lickage. Nothing is more sensuous, to me, than when a freshfaced girl or woman takes the initiative to lick the thick covering of flavoring from your fingers. She shows that she is ready to make oral contact with your skin; to mingle her saliva with yours, and the lickage sensation against the tips of my digits causes blood to immediately rush from my brain to where I do the majority of my thinking.

However, the existence of a truly full-flavored kettle chip has proven elusive. The closest thing I can find is the Krunchers brand of chips. The jalapeno isn't bad at all, although it tends to shred my bunghole in due time. The mesquite is weak, but they used to have a garlic-n-parmesan that seemed to withstand the test. But soon after they started marketing the variety, they halted it, perhaps because too many fat swine such as myself ate too many at once and made themselves queasy. Look, Krunchers, we're adults. It's not your place to decide for me whether or not your chip flavor is a good thing. If I want to sicken myself from gluttony, it's all on me. Just keep doing whatcha do, and I'll live and learn.

It's not yer fault.


Wednesday, January 4

I'm shocked, Shocked, I tell ya

From the "Knew It All Along" file:

In the latest Vanity Fair, Lindsay Lojack gives an interview in which she admits the following:

- She has bullimia
- She took drugs
- When she was hospitalized last year for "exhaustion", it was really for a "swollen liver" and a kidney infection. Damn.

But what's probably the scariest thing about her lately is the cover of the magazine. Good lord, honey. True Redheads know all about Sunscreen, SPF 30 or higher. A few freckles on the face are cute. Millions of them all over your body are disgusting.

You might be a anti-one-bagger. If I were doing you, turn off all the lights, but shine a flashlight on your face, so I couldn't see nothin' else.

Ah, who am I kidding?

They're back

That was just like taking four or five construction detours just to get to the dime store for a fuckin' needle-n-thread!


I did NOT do anything explicit to stop commenting. In fact, they just went away the other day. It seemed to do the same at BST and IHateKorey. I figured there was just a problem with Haloscan, until the other day when I noticed Chuck got his back.

I will do what I can to get some sort of commenting back, because I feel all sad and lonely without any feedback from you all. And, plus, there's no sense me posting any pictures of babes if there's no way for you to drool and/or criticize.

So I do sense the urgency.

Besides, Augie Doggie is BACK!! We all need to discuss this!


Tuesday, January 3

A lifelong dream of mine came true

Yep, put me down with the nipple-piercin', tat-wearin', snuff-dippin' set.

Daddy bought hisself a neon sign! I've wanted one my whole life, and thanks to the Neon Store in bucolic Warrenville, IL, I now have one with my name on it.

In fact, the vast new Childish Underground Bunker/Sanctuary (I'll leave the acronym to you) will be COMPLETE in the next day or two. The toilet has been activated, I pick up the sign tomorrow, and the carpet shall be finished by tomorrow night. Hell yes I'll have pictures. It's been a labor of love for my wife and myself, and I thank her kindly for letting me have this space.

Considering that nearly every other square inch of the premises is covered by hearts, stars, angels, light oak and other assorted country craftsy shit in the three primary colors of the Country Craftsman pallette, maroon, forest green, and medium blue...oh well, at least I now have a place where a man can look around, and see man things.


Monday, January 2

All Hail, the Dean of NFC North coaches

Lovie Smith, the longest tenured current Coach in the NFC Norris Division.

Mike Sherman got axed today; Mike Tice got axed yesterday.

In second place: Tricky Dick Jauron, the interim head Coach of your Detroit Lions.

The Sloth's New Year's Resolutions

...of which there are but two.

The first, as always, concerns weight. Namely, too much of it. Oprah herself just looks at me and goes "Hmm hmm hmm, Damn." The concrete floor of my basement creaks when I walk on it. My skin is so stretched out that parts of my insides are starting to peek out. I wear out good, decent leather shoes in two weeks or less, because my fat ass is pressing down on them so hard.

The second one is far harder to explain, you'd almost have to walk a mile in my shoes to understand.

There's a basic misunderstanding between my wife and myself. I, on one hand, think that basically she takes me for granted, that she doesn't take our relationship serious enough. She, on the other hand, thinks I sit around and think of things to worry about, particularly when it comes to our relationship. I understand that this is basically a 180 from what typically happens in marriages. I guess it all stems from the fact that I have a vagina where my cock should be. She's probably right, in fact, I'm 99.94% sure that she is. I need to be more like her, then I'd be happier.

So my resolution this year, and maybe I can kill two birds with one stone, when they go to staple my fat gutt shutt, maybe doctor can sew some balls on me. Maybe then I can learn to relax, and just accept her for what she is, and isn't, and quit worrying so much about the fact that she just might decide one day that life with me isn't worth living and split. Not that it's happened before to me or anything like that.

I fucking hate New Years.