i can't...
keep a straight face while farting. stand cloth rubbing together. say no. give up on friends (with 2 exceptions in my life). dunk a basketball. stop watching this trailer. be anything i want when i grow up (liars). listen to 90% of sinatra's crappy songs. walk on my hands. drink very much without wanting to throw up. tolerate sciolism/ists. believe it's not butter. golf for shit. forget.
i can...
finish expert minesweeper sub-100seconds. eat the exact same foods day after day. make people feel good or shitty. watch the 6 star wars movies in one sitting. watch 8 anne of green gables / anne of avonlea movies in one sitting (8 movies if VHS anyways - don't ask). squat well over twice my body weight; bench press almost 1.5x my body weight (had to put this after the anne of green gables stuff, naturally). lose probably another 5-10 pounds of body weight. build a computer. barely operate one however. quit smoking. resume smoking. quit smoking. name maybe 2 colors not included in roygbiv. forgive (pending figuring out wtf it means).
i won't...
ever become a sith lord (damnit!). read any more french philosophy. grow up. get a 'real' job. grow my hair long. ever have the answers. ever hear better voices than whitney houston (pre-crack) or lauren hill - i'm guessing. stop laughing. watch any more m night shyamalan movies if his next one is as awful as his last one (ok well i'll still watch them but damnit he's got to know that last one of his was one of the worst 5 movies i've ever seen). make my life a waste of time. rhyme?
i will...
try to become a sith lord (an affable one - or at least wield a lightsaber and maybe learn to use the force). put my foot in my mouth 4.7 times this week (as usual). always root for the Bears. write something worth reading (some day - blogs don't count). build a castle. be myself. read more (current). learn how to fly. die.
i shouldn't...
have this many regrets at 29. have so few boundaries. get lost in a town i've lived in for 10+ years (yet i do!). love coldstone so damn much. go to bed so late (so often). get up so late (so often). be afraid of spiders. have made teachers cry. have made anyone cry. die.
i should...
probably regret many things that i don't. (on second thought, i should have so few boundaries). start an anonymous blog (so i can say 'out loud' all the stuff that i don't for various reasons). listen to more music. sell my house (and live free/ly). sing more. read my old college papers (and laugh at myself). go see the new "Transformers". be nicer to telemarketers. have a trick up my sleeve. leave.
originally seen here
(UPDATE: saw the new "Transformers")
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
break these chains
so here's the dealy:
old people and technology don't mix - it is known (sorry old people but in chad.02 nobody is inviolable - as if you could figure out how to get here anyways!)
well they 'mix' in the sense that both are on earth at the same time or that both are around because modern science is perty good - but they 'don't mix' really in the sense of how an on-switch mixes with turning shit on (to put it bluntly)
eg:
not long ago, some short-sighted individual (clearly a buttass) showed my dad (old) how to use email (tech). well, 'how to use' in the sense that my dad can now push enough of the correct buttons in a row to intentionally send something, but not 'how to use' in the sense of voting no to palin is how to use a ballot
i'm sure whoever this person was who showed my dad got the happy good-deed feeling and pinned his or her new 'help the old fellow use the interweb' patch right next to the 'how to be anonymously annoying' patch, but making dad a superannuated emailer has consequences
for me...more unconcerned than short-sighted, i gave my dad my email address (a piece of info i was certain he'd immediately forget anyway what with his brain being full of 9,000 years of weather reports). but well-trained he was for he must have immediately entered my email into his address book, hasting it in just as the .nnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttttt was fading into ttttttttttt200% chance of frostbite
so i get email now from my dad. sometimes it's pretty normal stuff (eg 'haven't heard from you in a while, how are things? how are the Bears? how's the weather? -dad'). and i get to make a normal reply (eg 'the same...it's outside/check out weather.com' - to the first and the last, respectively; 'we have Cutler now' - to the middle) and feel caught-up and connected and all that
but...
you see, my dad is hooked on chain emails like old people are hooked on Branson (ok that's a pic of hee-haw but yom sayin) or like middle-class white girls are hooked on 'The Hills' or never-gonna-grow-up guys are hooked on PS3 (for the record, i don't get to play it much - would that i could!)
i just can't take them (the chain emails) any more. they always get me with the 'now send this out to 32 people in the next 5 minutes or tomorrow you'll bleed from your ass and die' and for 4 solid minutes i don't believe in that junk...('ha! bleed from my ass and die...ya i'd like to see tha...') before scrolling frantically through my address book SEND SEND SEND shit 4:38 SEND SEND SEND 4:52 baby jesus help me SEND SEND SEND. (just in case...i mean...don't really want to be wrong on that one - young people and superstition don't mix well either it seems)
my dad has become a conduit for chain emails; he's possibly established himself as a nexus of all junk chain emails for the mainland 48 states and parts of populated regions in canada (like the southern 1/4 inch on the map). there's a friggin chain-email LAB out there somewhere right now that has his IP address labeled as guinea_pig001 (the go-to guy). we could play 6 degrees of dad.02 and link obama with a super-intelligent shade of the color blue (douglass adams anyone?)
i'm not saying they're all bad or anything (capt. kangaroo and mr. rodgers being assassin rambo dudes was neat and all; someone's special sermon about living for today could be timely; enlarge your penis by taking 27 bottles of Strong-Kung-Fudick(tm) or whatever was helpful (ok dad didn't send that last)) but i cannot abide some snide little snooty podium-standing bastard elbowing his way into my life and telling me what to do or how easily something could be fixed if we listened to their stupid idea under the guise of an email from my dad. my email is not Email St. where outspoken, retarded street-preachers can come crank up their megaphones
that's what blogs are for.
(would it be too cheap an ending to say 'now link this blog to 32 friends in 5 minutes or bleed from your ass tomorrow' as a closing? ...be careful not to turn a fair warning into a TMI Thursday about that time you didn't do what the blogger said)
(PPS. please don't show my dad how to text)
old people and technology don't mix - it is known (sorry old people but in chad.02 nobody is inviolable - as if you could figure out how to get here anyways!)
well they 'mix' in the sense that both are on earth at the same time or that both are around because modern science is perty good - but they 'don't mix' really in the sense of how an on-switch mixes with turning shit on (to put it bluntly)
eg:
not long ago, some short-sighted individual (clearly a buttass) showed my dad (old) how to use email (tech). well, 'how to use' in the sense that my dad can now push enough of the correct buttons in a row to intentionally send something, but not 'how to use' in the sense of voting no to palin is how to use a ballot
i'm sure whoever this person was who showed my dad got the happy good-deed feeling and pinned his or her new 'help the old fellow use the interweb' patch right next to the 'how to be anonymously annoying' patch, but making dad a superannuated emailer has consequences
for me...more unconcerned than short-sighted, i gave my dad my email address (a piece of info i was certain he'd immediately forget anyway what with his brain being full of 9,000 years of weather reports). but well-trained he was for he must have immediately entered my email into his address book, hasting it in just as the .nnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttttt was fading into ttttttttttt200% chance of frostbite
so i get email now from my dad. sometimes it's pretty normal stuff (eg 'haven't heard from you in a while, how are things? how are the Bears? how's the weather? -dad'). and i get to make a normal reply (eg 'the same...it's outside/check out weather.com' - to the first and the last, respectively; 'we have Cutler now' - to the middle) and feel caught-up and connected and all that
but...
you see, my dad is hooked on chain emails like old people are hooked on Branson (ok that's a pic of hee-haw but yom sayin) or like middle-class white girls are hooked on 'The Hills' or never-gonna-grow-up guys are hooked on PS3 (for the record, i don't get to play it much - would that i could!)
i just can't take them (the chain emails) any more. they always get me with the 'now send this out to 32 people in the next 5 minutes or tomorrow you'll bleed from your ass and die' and for 4 solid minutes i don't believe in that junk...('ha! bleed from my ass and die...ya i'd like to see tha...') before scrolling frantically through my address book SEND SEND SEND shit 4:38 SEND SEND SEND 4:52 baby jesus help me SEND SEND SEND. (just in case...i mean...don't really want to be wrong on that one - young people and superstition don't mix well either it seems)
my dad has become a conduit for chain emails; he's possibly established himself as a nexus of all junk chain emails for the mainland 48 states and parts of populated regions in canada (like the southern 1/4 inch on the map). there's a friggin chain-email LAB out there somewhere right now that has his IP address labeled as guinea_pig001 (the go-to guy). we could play 6 degrees of dad.02 and link obama with a super-intelligent shade of the color blue (douglass adams anyone?)
i'm not saying they're all bad or anything (capt. kangaroo and mr. rodgers being assassin rambo dudes was neat and all; someone's special sermon about living for today could be timely; enlarge your penis by taking 27 bottles of Strong-Kung-Fudick(tm) or whatever was helpful (ok dad didn't send that last)) but i cannot abide some snide little snooty podium-standing bastard elbowing his way into my life and telling me what to do or how easily something could be fixed if we listened to their stupid idea under the guise of an email from my dad. my email is not Email St. where outspoken, retarded street-preachers can come crank up their megaphones
that's what blogs are for.
(would it be too cheap an ending to say 'now link this blog to 32 friends in 5 minutes or bleed from your ass tomorrow' as a closing? ...be careful not to turn a fair warning into a TMI Thursday about that time you didn't do what the blogger said)
(PPS. please don't show my dad how to text)
Friday, June 5, 2009
blogworld
to anyone out there who may read these things:
sorry i haven't been around lately to post on your blogs (and put some of my own up). just been busy (read: been doing other things).
i haven't read anyone's blog in at least two weeks (or thereabouts) and i can't imagine what i've been deprived of... i may have missed a human poo that smelled like fish-food on someone's TMI Thursday, or a boyfriend-turned-weirdo story, what someone might have seen (and subsequently thought about it) while driving walking roaming or otherwise being, how long someone can go skipping their eating/exercise lifestyle plan before deciding to just take the blog down, what my sister and her kids are up to, and uh other stuff...
deprived indeed!
i'll try to catch up on the old blogs and maybe post some comments soon. in the meantime, feel free to click play on the theme song to the right ---------------------------------------------------------->>>>>>>>>>
i have no lack of things to write about, i simply haven't sat down to do it. so...forgive me. hopefully soon i can tell you about the naked old man who shit a sheep at the Y, or about my dad's habitual sending of chain-emails, movie reviews, book reviews, social commentary (nah...), my ultimate dreams of roaming the earth centuries ago with a horse a bedroll and a sword...
fun times
(you could also, again in the meantime, try the playlist at the bottom - i update it from time to time)
(i love parentheticals)
sorry i haven't been around lately to post on your blogs (and put some of my own up). just been busy (read: been doing other things).
i haven't read anyone's blog in at least two weeks (or thereabouts) and i can't imagine what i've been deprived of... i may have missed a human poo that smelled like fish-food on someone's TMI Thursday, or a boyfriend-turned-weirdo story, what someone might have seen (and subsequently thought about it) while driving walking roaming or otherwise being, how long someone can go skipping their eating/exercise lifestyle plan before deciding to just take the blog down, what my sister and her kids are up to, and uh other stuff...
deprived indeed!
i'll try to catch up on the old blogs and maybe post some comments soon. in the meantime, feel free to click play on the theme song to the right ---------------------------------------------------------->>>>>>>>>>
i have no lack of things to write about, i simply haven't sat down to do it. so...forgive me. hopefully soon i can tell you about the naked old man who shit a sheep at the Y, or about my dad's habitual sending of chain-emails, movie reviews, book reviews, social commentary (nah...), my ultimate dreams of roaming the earth centuries ago with a horse a bedroll and a sword...
fun times
(you could also, again in the meantime, try the playlist at the bottom - i update it from time to time)
(i love parentheticals)
Monday, May 11, 2009
tidbits vol. 2
- great vagina descriptions #191
bored in a french philosophy class (b/c the french blow at philosophy (hahaha i crack myself up)), we invent a crambo-like game where we pass each other a vaj description the next person must rhyme with a new description of his own ad infinitum. the winner:
the winking eye of god
(the professor was equally effusive when he read it. i won't mention what preceded the winner as it was pretty stinking bad)
- secret decoder ring #33:
because everything we say is encrypted
the code-word: "open-minded"
the solutions:
intellectual code for: "aw, fuckit"
relationship code for: "oh come on...pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase?"
- quipuendo #614,020
she says: "wow, i'm half-drunk already"
he says: "hope it's the bottom half"
- rhetorical jokes repartee #16
the old locker-room joke goes: ('durrrrrrrr') "wonder what fish used to taste like before women learned to swim"
dick
- questions i don't have the answers for (but opened my big fat mouth anyway) #30,344:
(also filed under 'smartass')
she asks: know anything that takes nail polish out of clothes?
i answer: scissors
- stuff i have no business saying #78,540
because sometimes nobody gets my jokes
"after constantine converted, christianity spread faster than room-temp butter on a vegas stripper's rear"
bored in a french philosophy class (b/c the french blow at philosophy (hahaha i crack myself up)), we invent a crambo-like game where we pass each other a vaj description the next person must rhyme with a new description of his own ad infinitum. the winner:
the winking eye of god
(the professor was equally effusive when he read it. i won't mention what preceded the winner as it was pretty stinking bad)
- secret decoder ring #33:
because everything we say is encrypted
the code-word: "open-minded"
the solutions:
intellectual code for: "aw, fuckit"
relationship code for: "oh come on...pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase?"
- quipuendo #614,020
she says: "wow, i'm half-drunk already"
he says: "hope it's the bottom half"
- rhetorical jokes repartee #16
the old locker-room joke goes: ('durrrrrrrr') "wonder what fish used to taste like before women learned to swim"
dick
- questions i don't have the answers for (but opened my big fat mouth anyway) #30,344:
(also filed under 'smartass')
she asks: know anything that takes nail polish out of clothes?
i answer: scissors
- stuff i have no business saying #78,540
because sometimes nobody gets my jokes
"after constantine converted, christianity spread faster than room-temp butter on a vegas stripper's rear"
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
the ironic oracle at delphi
i've noticed that knowing yourself (half the mandate) slike tryn ta heer yer own axent
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tnexa nwo rey reeh at nyrt ekils (etadnam eht flah) flesrouy gniwonk taht deciton ev'i
(i liked the above the way it was, but felt i should add: the notion that 'you can't know yourself!' comes from conceited minds that assume they have the ability to see lucidly and solve all problems themselves. this of course is why 'humility is the beginning of wisdom')
- i'll see what i can do about getting a vegas story up next :)
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tnexa nwo rey reeh at nyrt ekils (etadnam eht flah) flesrouy gniwonk taht deciton ev'i
(i liked the above the way it was, but felt i should add: the notion that 'you can't know yourself!' comes from conceited minds that assume they have the ability to see lucidly and solve all problems themselves. this of course is why 'humility is the beginning of wisdom')
- i'll see what i can do about getting a vegas story up next :)
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
lowering the bar
each time i snatch an apple from the drawer, i consider how my apple-standards progressively lower until i get a new bag
and then it repeats
and then it repeats
Monday, April 27, 2009
i decided
that if i'm going to die of something completely preventable, i think type 2 diabetes isn't a bad choice.
if my grey, ponderous gravestone summarized:
1979-XXXX
car wreck
than any random, picnicking stranger (he picnics in graveyards) might spare only a cursory glance at what is likely to be my only monument.
but if my pastel colored, felicitous gravestone proudly displayed:
1979-XXXX
idiot got type 2 diabetes
our inspired picnicker (i'm buried in a park) might, as a salute, bury some reese's peanut butter easter eggs for me.
(btw, sorry it took me so long to get a post up. since announcing that i was heading to that auriferous, desert town they call Vegas, i thought Vegas-stories were required of my next entry. and i haven't had the time/energy to write/think much on that. hopefully i can update this blog more frequently, even if i just have to drop smaller nuggets to pan)
if my grey, ponderous gravestone summarized:
1979-XXXX
car wreck
than any random, picnicking stranger (he picnics in graveyards) might spare only a cursory glance at what is likely to be my only monument.
but if my pastel colored, felicitous gravestone proudly displayed:
1979-XXXX
idiot got type 2 diabetes
our inspired picnicker (i'm buried in a park) might, as a salute, bury some reese's peanut butter easter eggs for me.
(btw, sorry it took me so long to get a post up. since announcing that i was heading to that auriferous, desert town they call Vegas, i thought Vegas-stories were required of my next entry. and i haven't had the time/energy to write/think much on that. hopefully i can update this blog more frequently, even if i just have to drop smaller nuggets to pan)
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
rubbing it in at the denver airport
wanted to let everyone know i'll be out of town until monday. i'm heading out in a few hours, destination Denver airport.
and i'll be changing into a Bears shirt or jersey for the walk through. i'm going to get there as early as possible and spend as much time arms wide-open and roaming the airport as i can. aw ya.
i'll be in Vegas in the wee hours of Wednesday morning and will be staying at Ceasar's Palace.
hail Ceasar. i plan to give to you what is yours, and take from you what i can.
i'm going to try hard to go to bed every day that i'm there. that may sound like a simple goal but i have this habit of staying up for days at a time when i do stuff like this.
i'm sorta big stamina boy.
i'll be at my crazy-ass-mother-in-law's house saturday afternoon/evening and will be there for Easter as well. then come home Sunday night.
hopefully i'll have some stories for the blog when i return.
the Bears jersey in Denver is going to be KILLER!!
and i'll be changing into a Bears shirt or jersey for the walk through. i'm going to get there as early as possible and spend as much time arms wide-open and roaming the airport as i can. aw ya.
i'll be in Vegas in the wee hours of Wednesday morning and will be staying at Ceasar's Palace.
hail Ceasar. i plan to give to you what is yours, and take from you what i can.
i'm going to try hard to go to bed every day that i'm there. that may sound like a simple goal but i have this habit of staying up for days at a time when i do stuff like this.
i'm sorta big stamina boy.
i'll be at my crazy-ass-mother-in-law's house saturday afternoon/evening and will be there for Easter as well. then come home Sunday night.
hopefully i'll have some stories for the blog when i return.
the Bears jersey in Denver is going to be KILLER!!
Thursday, April 2, 2009
WE GOT HIM!!!
I had started a post about two hours ago explaining how badly i wanted Jay Cutler to be a Chicago Bear. The Bears need Cutler like the Middle East needs peace (i had simile'd).
And before i had time to even really get to work on it, the BEARS GOT HIM!!!
FUK YA!!!
If you don't know who Jay Cutler is, or how this whole Jay Cutler saga has played out, and didn't know that there were at least 10 teams trying to get this highly coveted quarterback, then clearly you don't follow football, like, AT ALL. He's instantly one of the best QB's the Bears have ever had and an immediate improvement to what we've been working with lately.
So if you don't know, you'll just have to take me at my word when i say we just snagged a young Brett Favre (even non-fb fans know him at least: winniest QB of all time, most TD's of all time), at age 25.
Jay Cutler is so good and so talented that even I - who laughs in the face of basically EVERYTHING - can excuse the Donald Trump wig he wears (you can't see it under the football helmet anyways) and even the peculiar likeness.
He's from Santa Claus, Indiana, and just made it snow in Chicago.
For a quick recap:
1. opening day of 2008 NFL season, NE Patriots All-World QB Tom Brady blows his out his knee and is done for the year
2. unheralded, unknown backup QB Matt Cassell steps in and leads the Patriots to a stunning 11-5 record while running a surprisingly high-octane offense
3. meanwhile, Denver QB Jay Cutler plays out of his mind and makes the pro bowl after breaking records, throwing for over 4,500 yards, and running the 2nd highest ranked offense in the league
4. 2008 season ends...
5. Tom Brady is healthy, Matt Cassell (who is about to become a free agent) is franchise-tagged
6. Denver Broncos owner pat bowlen (buttass) shockingly fires future hall-0f-fame head coach Mike Shanahan (who had drafted and developed Jay Cutler)
7. Cutler (and all of Denver) is deeply concerned and speaks to bowlen about the future and is assured that the offensive staff will remain intact
8. bowlen hires the NE Patriots offensive coordinator, josh mcdaniels, as the new head coach and promptly fires the entire offensive staff
9. mcdaniels reaches out to Cutler and tells him he came to Denver for the opportunity to coach the young gunslinger
10. at the same time, mcdaniels (buttass) is attempting to trade Cutler for Matt Cassel
11. Cutler confronts mcdaniels and bowlen about it who tell them they didn't try to trade him
12. it comes out that they tried to trade him
13. Cutler confronts them again and they say other teams tried to trade for him and all they did was answer the phone
14. it comes out that bowlen and mcdaniels had initiated the trade talks
15. cutler says fuck this, get me out of Denver
16. Bears fans become erect (Cutler grew up a Bears' fan) but then remembered the Bears never get these top guys
17. mcdaniels and Cutler talk to clear the air; mcdaniels (first-time HC and youngest HC in the league at 33) reportedly antagonizes Cutler and tells him he could trade him at any time
18. Cutler: 'blow it out your sinkhole stinkhole (or something like that).' and puts his and his mother's Denver homes up for sale
19. mcdaniels says "Cutler is our QB"
20. Denver claims Cutler won't answer their calls (but will answer texts). Cutler claims he received no calls.
21. People criticize both sides. People say Cutler isn't the first NFL player to be lied to and that he's acting like a baby. People say Denver is friggin STUPID.
22. Denver says Cutler is going to be traded
23. I, chad.02, tell pretty much everyone i know that i think the Bears have a really good shot at getting Cutler and he could wind up being our QB for the 2009 season. nobody agrees. everybody scoffs (it's true...)
23. Jay Cutler becomes a Chicago Bear
and boom goes the dynamite!
the Bears will be playing the Broncos Sunday, August 30th in a preseason game. should be some sparks flying!
(btw i bet someone about 2 weeks ago $100 that the Bears get Cutler and then go on to win 13 games. fist 1/2 down)
And before i had time to even really get to work on it, the BEARS GOT HIM!!!
FUK YA!!!
If you don't know who Jay Cutler is, or how this whole Jay Cutler saga has played out, and didn't know that there were at least 10 teams trying to get this highly coveted quarterback, then clearly you don't follow football, like, AT ALL. He's instantly one of the best QB's the Bears have ever had and an immediate improvement to what we've been working with lately.
So if you don't know, you'll just have to take me at my word when i say we just snagged a young Brett Favre (even non-fb fans know him at least: winniest QB of all time, most TD's of all time), at age 25.
Jay Cutler is so good and so talented that even I - who laughs in the face of basically EVERYTHING - can excuse the Donald Trump wig he wears (you can't see it under the football helmet anyways) and even the peculiar likeness.
He's from Santa Claus, Indiana, and just made it snow in Chicago.
For a quick recap:
1. opening day of 2008 NFL season, NE Patriots All-World QB Tom Brady blows his out his knee and is done for the year
2. unheralded, unknown backup QB Matt Cassell steps in and leads the Patriots to a stunning 11-5 record while running a surprisingly high-octane offense
3. meanwhile, Denver QB Jay Cutler plays out of his mind and makes the pro bowl after breaking records, throwing for over 4,500 yards, and running the 2nd highest ranked offense in the league
4. 2008 season ends...
5. Tom Brady is healthy, Matt Cassell (who is about to become a free agent) is franchise-tagged
6. Denver Broncos owner pat bowlen (buttass) shockingly fires future hall-0f-fame head coach Mike Shanahan (who had drafted and developed Jay Cutler)
7. Cutler (and all of Denver) is deeply concerned and speaks to bowlen about the future and is assured that the offensive staff will remain intact
8. bowlen hires the NE Patriots offensive coordinator, josh mcdaniels, as the new head coach and promptly fires the entire offensive staff
9. mcdaniels reaches out to Cutler and tells him he came to Denver for the opportunity to coach the young gunslinger
10. at the same time, mcdaniels (buttass) is attempting to trade Cutler for Matt Cassel
11. Cutler confronts mcdaniels and bowlen about it who tell them they didn't try to trade him
12. it comes out that they tried to trade him
13. Cutler confronts them again and they say other teams tried to trade for him and all they did was answer the phone
14. it comes out that bowlen and mcdaniels had initiated the trade talks
15. cutler says fuck this, get me out of Denver
16. Bears fans become erect (Cutler grew up a Bears' fan) but then remembered the Bears never get these top guys
17. mcdaniels and Cutler talk to clear the air; mcdaniels (first-time HC and youngest HC in the league at 33) reportedly antagonizes Cutler and tells him he could trade him at any time
18. Cutler: 'blow it out your sinkhole stinkhole (or something like that).' and puts his and his mother's Denver homes up for sale
19. mcdaniels says "Cutler is our QB"
20. Denver claims Cutler won't answer their calls (but will answer texts). Cutler claims he received no calls.
21. People criticize both sides. People say Cutler isn't the first NFL player to be lied to and that he's acting like a baby. People say Denver is friggin STUPID.
22. Denver says Cutler is going to be traded
23. I, chad.02, tell pretty much everyone i know that i think the Bears have a really good shot at getting Cutler and he could wind up being our QB for the 2009 season. nobody agrees. everybody scoffs (it's true...)
23. Jay Cutler becomes a Chicago Bear
and boom goes the dynamite!
the Bears will be playing the Broncos Sunday, August 30th in a preseason game. should be some sparks flying!
(btw i bet someone about 2 weeks ago $100 that the Bears get Cutler and then go on to win 13 games. fist 1/2 down)
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
the world is a rainbow
i've always found racist humor hilarious.
now, i admit that it could very well be because i'm white and i have no problem what they make fun of us for. without fail, every non-white comic doing a white impersonation does the same exact thing: they start (oh no!) enunciating and/or talk about how rich we all are and hope we give them jobs (again) some day. damn guys...kick us in the power-hungry nuts why don't ya? (they do sometimes start talking like some southern super-ignorant heavy-country-accented hick stereotype but since white people make fun of that stereotype too i can hardly count it as anti-white - esp since everyone hates it).
or maybe it's because racist humor remarkably seems very genuine. at least in comparison to (for example) the white claque overcompensating for any black achievement: "oh boy nice job there black guy," (with a thumbs-up) "wow black guy you talk very well," (with downward tilted head, looking above the glasses and encouraging half-smile) "way to educate yourself black dude," (with an arm-swing across the body) followed by a fake, hearty chortle you'd imagine a knight of the round table making when Arthur cracked a lame joke. i think even blacks and mexicans would prefer to hear "get a fucking job, asshole!" over that bathetic crap.
truly, when it comes to racist humor there are (finally) remarkably few rules. this in stark contrast to the every-day do's and dont's of racism-avoidance. with humor, the only real rule white people have is don't say the 'n-word' (i don't think there are actually any other rules for any race when it comes to humor).
and i'm cool with that. they can have that one. we whites, after all, have a monopoly on all words 3-syllables and up anyway. blacks prefer speaking in numbers, initials, and invented contractions (in an effort to make everything rhyme for the sake of rap and all). mexican speakers freely interlace english and spanish together in an effort to show their (now-divorced) interracial parentage. asians pretend not to know what the fuck anyone is saying and just bow to slink off and invent a TV to sell to us or do someone's nails. arabs are all hiding out in saunas waiting for their turn as the current american enemy to end and only grunt a bit of english in between mutterings of jihad. (nobody really says anything about indians (err native americans or whatever) b/c i think we all just feel bad about the genocide and reservations and stuff...that and that there's only like 433 indians left). using real words and complete sentences and shit is sort of our (white) way of things i guess.
Obama (and his being elected president) is hopefully a reflection of my generation's open-mindedness and out-of-the-boxiness. Hopefully. All older generations (that i can tell) still think we're all good-for-nothing-moralless-PoS's but maybe this shows us in a new light.
the Obama election though had some seriously funny stuff in it (faaaaar too much to write in just a few blogs). i mean, he's black now so we can all get the warm fuzzy, but just wait til he fucks up. to whites he'll be the n-word, to blacks he'll be just another white asshole fucking up their world (the half-whitedness was CLEARLY planned out for deniability later on i say!). our nations jaundiced neophilia is ineluctable after all...
i remember watching some demographic stats after the election where it showed 95% of the black vote went to Obama. i remember thinking i'm glad it wasn't 95% of the white vote for McCain or there'd be more glass-breaking, car-flipping, truck-driver-bricking riots in LA (in addition of course to McCain being elected). no, it was the white vote that elected Obama (see, we gave a black guy a job!).
we all used to have 'a black friend' on reserve like a parachute if we offended someone. "dude, i have a friend who's black - tyrone? - i ain't racist motha fucka" (or if it was the mexicans offended then Carlos and it was "i ain't racist, essay." asians never cared if we were racist). but now we get to just say "i voted Obama."
Obama is the black friend of all America.
and i'd give a kidney to charity to watch him pimp-limp up to the podium at a state-of-the-union or something and say "what it do, motha fuckas?"
he does talk really well...
now, i admit that it could very well be because i'm white and i have no problem what they make fun of us for. without fail, every non-white comic doing a white impersonation does the same exact thing: they start (oh no!) enunciating and/or talk about how rich we all are and hope we give them jobs (again) some day. damn guys...kick us in the power-hungry nuts why don't ya? (they do sometimes start talking like some southern super-ignorant heavy-country-accented hick stereotype but since white people make fun of that stereotype too i can hardly count it as anti-white - esp since everyone hates it).
or maybe it's because racist humor remarkably seems very genuine. at least in comparison to (for example) the white claque overcompensating for any black achievement: "oh boy nice job there black guy," (with a thumbs-up) "wow black guy you talk very well," (with downward tilted head, looking above the glasses and encouraging half-smile) "way to educate yourself black dude," (with an arm-swing across the body) followed by a fake, hearty chortle you'd imagine a knight of the round table making when Arthur cracked a lame joke. i think even blacks and mexicans would prefer to hear "get a fucking job, asshole!" over that bathetic crap.
truly, when it comes to racist humor there are (finally) remarkably few rules. this in stark contrast to the every-day do's and dont's of racism-avoidance. with humor, the only real rule white people have is don't say the 'n-word' (i don't think there are actually any other rules for any race when it comes to humor).
and i'm cool with that. they can have that one. we whites, after all, have a monopoly on all words 3-syllables and up anyway. blacks prefer speaking in numbers, initials, and invented contractions (in an effort to make everything rhyme for the sake of rap and all). mexican speakers freely interlace english and spanish together in an effort to show their (now-divorced) interracial parentage. asians pretend not to know what the fuck anyone is saying and just bow to slink off and invent a TV to sell to us or do someone's nails. arabs are all hiding out in saunas waiting for their turn as the current american enemy to end and only grunt a bit of english in between mutterings of jihad. (nobody really says anything about indians (err native americans or whatever) b/c i think we all just feel bad about the genocide and reservations and stuff...that and that there's only like 433 indians left). using real words and complete sentences and shit is sort of our (white) way of things i guess.
Obama (and his being elected president) is hopefully a reflection of my generation's open-mindedness and out-of-the-boxiness. Hopefully. All older generations (that i can tell) still think we're all good-for-nothing-moralless-PoS's but maybe this shows us in a new light.
the Obama election though had some seriously funny stuff in it (faaaaar too much to write in just a few blogs). i mean, he's black now so we can all get the warm fuzzy, but just wait til he fucks up. to whites he'll be the n-word, to blacks he'll be just another white asshole fucking up their world (the half-whitedness was CLEARLY planned out for deniability later on i say!). our nations jaundiced neophilia is ineluctable after all...
i remember watching some demographic stats after the election where it showed 95% of the black vote went to Obama. i remember thinking i'm glad it wasn't 95% of the white vote for McCain or there'd be more glass-breaking, car-flipping, truck-driver-bricking riots in LA (in addition of course to McCain being elected). no, it was the white vote that elected Obama (see, we gave a black guy a job!).
we all used to have 'a black friend' on reserve like a parachute if we offended someone. "dude, i have a friend who's black - tyrone? - i ain't racist motha fucka" (or if it was the mexicans offended then Carlos and it was "i ain't racist, essay." asians never cared if we were racist). but now we get to just say "i voted Obama."
Obama is the black friend of all America.
and i'd give a kidney to charity to watch him pimp-limp up to the podium at a state-of-the-union or something and say "what it do, motha fuckas?"
he does talk really well...
Monday, March 9, 2009
my salsa
I've been debating (with myself) whether i'm ready to get more serious on this blog yet or not and breaking (temporarily) from the mindless entertainment . Whilst tossing a few ideas back and forth (doesn't that imply an empty head? i've always thought so) i came across one of my sisters' posts that made me laugh and reminded me of another quick chuckle.
Let me say for her sake (and for mine) that basically all of my consanguineous others, well, dance (let me qualify: i don't mean ballet or anything like that, well, except for the ballroom dancing class i took, i guess there's that, but mostly i mean 'dance' in the more casual and fun sense). Growing up first as a little bopper around a lot of black kids and later having 6 sisters determined that i would dance as well (not necessarily dance "as well" meaning 'equally skilled,' rather as in 'also' - but you'll thank me for pointing out the double-speak this time anyway, yes?).
most (c'mon, ALL) of my friends find my little dancing proclivity quite hysterical. i don't even need music (that they can hear) - i'll just walk around and BAM BAM POW POW hit you with a robot or roger rabit or something...(but never the worm, hannah. i wouldn't LOWER MYSELF to do something like *gasp* the WOOOOOOOOORM!!)
yah so onward...sorry, this post is pretty spur of the moment (the moment is a horse, apparently - and i'm riding the pony?) - and this is waaaay too long of an intro for such a short story...
so one day i limped out of my bedroom, fiercely rubbing my aching right knee. i hadn't expected the gathering of family and friends who had suddenly become interested in my awkward arrival and wondered what the story was.
that's when i learned (remember this) to never begin with: "well you see i was walking out of the shower and started doing the running man..." - because if you start with that you just lose your audience.
hello?
you still there?
well shit...
Let me say for her sake (and for mine) that basically all of my consanguineous others, well, dance (let me qualify: i don't mean ballet or anything like that, well, except for the ballroom dancing class i took, i guess there's that, but mostly i mean 'dance' in the more casual and fun sense). Growing up first as a little bopper around a lot of black kids and later having 6 sisters determined that i would dance as well (not necessarily dance "as well" meaning 'equally skilled,' rather as in 'also' - but you'll thank me for pointing out the double-speak this time anyway, yes?).
most (c'mon, ALL) of my friends find my little dancing proclivity quite hysterical. i don't even need music (that they can hear) - i'll just walk around and BAM BAM POW POW hit you with a robot or roger rabit or something...(but never the worm, hannah. i wouldn't LOWER MYSELF to do something like *gasp* the WOOOOOOOOORM!!)
yah so onward...sorry, this post is pretty spur of the moment (the moment is a horse, apparently - and i'm riding the pony?) - and this is waaaay too long of an intro for such a short story...
so one day i limped out of my bedroom, fiercely rubbing my aching right knee. i hadn't expected the gathering of family and friends who had suddenly become interested in my awkward arrival and wondered what the story was.
that's when i learned (remember this) to never begin with: "well you see i was walking out of the shower and started doing the running man..." - because if you start with that you just lose your audience.
hello?
you still there?
well shit...
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
i love breakfast
caving in to brat-pressure to get a blog up, i thought i'd clue you all in to a piece of my AM.
so i hit the Y this morning, it's a running day. i hate running. those people who say "zowwy your the body was the made for the running!!" are imbecils. our bodies were made for swinging from trees, being dexterious, typing blogs. if we were made for running we'd have four legs like horses, cheetahs and dinosaurs (some). if we were made for running, some poor kid in zaire would chase down a gazelle and bite it in the throat rather than chuck a spear at it (or shoot it with their tribe-issue AK47 - in my daydream little timmibimmibakalakutuka wears an old magic johnson jersey, cut off jean shorts, grass sandals roped to his feet, no socks, no underwear, and has an AK strapped to his shoulder).
but whatever, i get through the running by trying to think of everything in the world that isn't running while on my headphones i'm getting updated on the latest news from the TV regarding what everyone is supposed to be worried about. blah blah blah (think i to myself), i have a ripe conspiracy theory about all of it that allows me to not be the least bit fearful (and if i ever get around to it, maybe i'll clue yall in on some of that stuff).
after that i have to do a little core work (jaknow: abs, lower back, obliques, etc). i actually enjoy that part of it except sometimes i have some self-consiousnicity. it's not about how i look, exactly, it's more how i look while doing it. i do real stuff, the stuff that makes you look silly.
so i'm in a room full of girls (i think i'm the only male in my town who works out in the morning) and i grab the medicine ball. the picture flashes in my head of how this might go... i'm supposed to lie on my back, heels to my butt, medicine ball on my pelvis, and bridge up a bunch of times. in my head, i see every girl suddenly stop what they're doing to watch the weirdo trying to impregnate the medicine ball yom-sayin? so...i do some bird-dogs instead.
i get home and start making breakfast. i love breakfast. everything about it. it's the time of day when the air is fresh, clean, and the coolness ignites your skin. it's the quick boily crinkle sound when i pour the scrambled eggs into the pan... it's the sounds...the pops, the sizzles, the crackles of the ham-pan harmonizing with the egg-pan. it's watching the cheese go from shredded to melted inside the scrambled eggs and making my mouth water. it's sipping the OJ before the food is done and having to top the glass up again. and most of all it's the smells.
even when i worked at the craphole that is Perkins as a breakfast cook several years ago i always enjoyed the smells. the salty scent of pork cooking in the morning makes you want to live that day. not merely x off another day of the calendar on a countdown until death. i mean actually live that day. in the carpe diem sorta way.
and i imagine there's some poor kid in zaire who'd feel the exact same way.
("who'd" meant as a contraction trinity)
go america! (don't click that link at work (probably) or around non-zaire kids)
so i hit the Y this morning, it's a running day. i hate running. those people who say "zowwy your the body was the made for the running!!" are imbecils. our bodies were made for swinging from trees, being dexterious, typing blogs. if we were made for running we'd have four legs like horses, cheetahs and dinosaurs (some). if we were made for running, some poor kid in zaire would chase down a gazelle and bite it in the throat rather than chuck a spear at it (or shoot it with their tribe-issue AK47 - in my daydream little timmibimmibakalakutuka wears an old magic johnson jersey, cut off jean shorts, grass sandals roped to his feet, no socks, no underwear, and has an AK strapped to his shoulder).
but whatever, i get through the running by trying to think of everything in the world that isn't running while on my headphones i'm getting updated on the latest news from the TV regarding what everyone is supposed to be worried about. blah blah blah (think i to myself), i have a ripe conspiracy theory about all of it that allows me to not be the least bit fearful (and if i ever get around to it, maybe i'll clue yall in on some of that stuff).
after that i have to do a little core work (jaknow: abs, lower back, obliques, etc). i actually enjoy that part of it except sometimes i have some self-consiousnicity. it's not about how i look, exactly, it's more how i look while doing it. i do real stuff, the stuff that makes you look silly.
so i'm in a room full of girls (i think i'm the only male in my town who works out in the morning) and i grab the medicine ball. the picture flashes in my head of how this might go... i'm supposed to lie on my back, heels to my butt, medicine ball on my pelvis, and bridge up a bunch of times. in my head, i see every girl suddenly stop what they're doing to watch the weirdo trying to impregnate the medicine ball yom-sayin? so...i do some bird-dogs instead.
i get home and start making breakfast. i love breakfast. everything about it. it's the time of day when the air is fresh, clean, and the coolness ignites your skin. it's the quick boily crinkle sound when i pour the scrambled eggs into the pan... it's the sounds...the pops, the sizzles, the crackles of the ham-pan harmonizing with the egg-pan. it's watching the cheese go from shredded to melted inside the scrambled eggs and making my mouth water. it's sipping the OJ before the food is done and having to top the glass up again. and most of all it's the smells.
even when i worked at the craphole that is Perkins as a breakfast cook several years ago i always enjoyed the smells. the salty scent of pork cooking in the morning makes you want to live that day. not merely x off another day of the calendar on a countdown until death. i mean actually live that day. in the carpe diem sorta way.
and i imagine there's some poor kid in zaire who'd feel the exact same way.
("who'd" meant as a contraction trinity)
go america! (don't click that link at work (probably) or around non-zaire kids)
Thursday, February 12, 2009
been to the doctor a lot lately
And I have a herniated disc and strep throat (or strep thoat as they say in the ghetto).
I found out officially last week after several visits and getting the MRI results that my back pain is the result of a herniated disc. Before doing anything too serious, the doctor wanted to try me on some prednisone which seemed to help quite a bit and my back felt better than it had in several months. Unfortunately you can't be on that steroid for very long because of the side effects.
Which of course affected me. 5 days on it and my back felt pretty good, relatively speaking, and i had a face full of zits, hour by hour mood swings, and i couldn't quit speaking with my Arnold accent. AHHHH SEV YOSELF AHHHHH I'm kidding about the Arnold accent of course - that was purely voluntary and not the result of any medication.
Despite some side-effects, i was still pleased overall with the prednisone as a first step because while popping zits in the mirror like a high school boy, i thought to myself:
A. it didn't turn me into a chick (so how bad are the side-effects really?!)
B. at least i'm not bleeding out of every hole or developed mild retardation or something like most medications advertise (so how bad are the side-effects really?!)
That sort of meets my standards. If it doesn't make me have to live a month like a woman and doesn't make me bleed out of every hole or cause mild retardation, the side-effects are basically nugatory.
It can also temporarily weaken your immune system which may or may not have led to me returning to the doctor's office this morning ("Hey Marge, blue scrubs again? cool." "Jill" "Paula" "sup, sup" "nono, sick this time. ya. seeya"). I've only been sick now 8 times in my life (by my count, including pneumonia at 2 weeks old and the chicken pox i don't remember) so i think there may be a correlation. hard to say.
So anyway i tell the doctor i think i have strep and he sends a big-boned, big-tittied mexican nurse back in to gag me with a double-headed, extra-long, super-Q-tip. My mind flashes to a recent post i read. Aaaaand...then she's full on Q-tip assaulting my face with a completely pococurante (word of the day Feb 8th) look on hers. I'm gagging. I'm making burpy, noisy, gurgly sounds, and she's just plunging away, one hand on her tool, one on the back of my head oorgoogrgrogooogogrrrogogorogorgoroogogogog. Fuck that. Glad that prednisone, once again, didn't turn me into a girl - yom-sayin?! (in retrospect it would have been a perfect time for my Arnold-accent grunting. blown opportunity...)
She leaves with a smile (fuck you bitch i think to myself) saying it usually only takes 10 minutes or so for the lab-work to get done. Look...i'm sorry for the fuck you bitch and all but i just cannot stand having doctory stuff done to me, like, at all. I have no issue with getting my joints bent up until just before the point they'd break, getting the life choked out of me, getting thrown all over the place, getting hit in the face, or having some ugly cowboy fucker stick his sausage fingers behind my clavicle; but if you stick a swab down my throat, try to give me a shot, or check my ears with that pointy thing i want to stab your head and kick your privates.
...Which reminds me of the last time i was sick. After a throat swab came back negative, he said he needed to do a nasal swab. I should have known something when he said "we'll be friends after this, ok" and when i looked up to see if he was serious, he grabbed my fucking head and shoved an extra-long Q-tip so far up my nose it poked hair out of my head. He dies often at night in my dreams. Oh no we're NOT friends, buttass.
So this morning i was very clear up front that if the throat swab came back negative they did not get a free pass to start playing tic-tac-toe on my brain wrinkles (i learned my lesson - mamma dint raise no fool). That was pretty much the only thing i was thinking about when the throat gagging nurse left my room...god, it's me, please let the swab be positive, think of their families
After the formulation of 2 or 3 completely draconian, viorent plans (if it came to that), the doctor finally returned and said the test was positive for strep and gave me a perscription for something that will hopefully not turn me into a girl or make me bleed from every hole or cause mild retardation.
There was sort of an awkward pause after that with the doctor just looking at me and i wasn't sure if it was my turn to talk or something. Maybe he was thinking and i was supposed to wait. Maybe i'm supposed to leave now. Maybe he wanted to know how i felt about it. And to that i had an answer: IT'S NOT A TOOOMOR
"Right, uh, figured."
I found out officially last week after several visits and getting the MRI results that my back pain is the result of a herniated disc. Before doing anything too serious, the doctor wanted to try me on some prednisone which seemed to help quite a bit and my back felt better than it had in several months. Unfortunately you can't be on that steroid for very long because of the side effects.
Which of course affected me. 5 days on it and my back felt pretty good, relatively speaking, and i had a face full of zits, hour by hour mood swings, and i couldn't quit speaking with my Arnold accent. AHHHH SEV YOSELF AHHHHH I'm kidding about the Arnold accent of course - that was purely voluntary and not the result of any medication.
Despite some side-effects, i was still pleased overall with the prednisone as a first step because while popping zits in the mirror like a high school boy, i thought to myself:
A. it didn't turn me into a chick (so how bad are the side-effects really?!)
B. at least i'm not bleeding out of every hole or developed mild retardation or something like most medications advertise (so how bad are the side-effects really?!)
That sort of meets my standards. If it doesn't make me have to live a month like a woman and doesn't make me bleed out of every hole or cause mild retardation, the side-effects are basically nugatory.
It can also temporarily weaken your immune system which may or may not have led to me returning to the doctor's office this morning ("Hey Marge, blue scrubs again? cool." "Jill" "Paula" "sup, sup" "nono, sick this time. ya. seeya"). I've only been sick now 8 times in my life (by my count, including pneumonia at 2 weeks old and the chicken pox i don't remember) so i think there may be a correlation. hard to say.
So anyway i tell the doctor i think i have strep and he sends a big-boned, big-tittied mexican nurse back in to gag me with a double-headed, extra-long, super-Q-tip. My mind flashes to a recent post i read. Aaaaand...then she's full on Q-tip assaulting my face with a completely pococurante (word of the day Feb 8th) look on hers. I'm gagging. I'm making burpy, noisy, gurgly sounds, and she's just plunging away, one hand on her tool, one on the back of my head oorgoogrgrogooogogrrrogogorogorgoroogogogog. Fuck that. Glad that prednisone, once again, didn't turn me into a girl - yom-sayin?! (in retrospect it would have been a perfect time for my Arnold-accent grunting. blown opportunity...)
She leaves with a smile (fuck you bitch i think to myself) saying it usually only takes 10 minutes or so for the lab-work to get done. Look...i'm sorry for the fuck you bitch and all but i just cannot stand having doctory stuff done to me, like, at all. I have no issue with getting my joints bent up until just before the point they'd break, getting the life choked out of me, getting thrown all over the place, getting hit in the face, or having some ugly cowboy fucker stick his sausage fingers behind my clavicle; but if you stick a swab down my throat, try to give me a shot, or check my ears with that pointy thing i want to stab your head and kick your privates.
...Which reminds me of the last time i was sick. After a throat swab came back negative, he said he needed to do a nasal swab. I should have known something when he said "we'll be friends after this, ok" and when i looked up to see if he was serious, he grabbed my fucking head and shoved an extra-long Q-tip so far up my nose it poked hair out of my head. He dies often at night in my dreams. Oh no we're NOT friends, buttass.
So this morning i was very clear up front that if the throat swab came back negative they did not get a free pass to start playing tic-tac-toe on my brain wrinkles (i learned my lesson - mamma dint raise no fool). That was pretty much the only thing i was thinking about when the throat gagging nurse left my room...god, it's me, please let the swab be positive, think of their families
After the formulation of 2 or 3 completely draconian, viorent plans (if it came to that), the doctor finally returned and said the test was positive for strep and gave me a perscription for something that will hopefully not turn me into a girl or make me bleed from every hole or cause mild retardation.
There was sort of an awkward pause after that with the doctor just looking at me and i wasn't sure if it was my turn to talk or something. Maybe he was thinking and i was supposed to wait. Maybe i'm supposed to leave now. Maybe he wanted to know how i felt about it. And to that i had an answer: IT'S NOT A TOOOMOR
"Right, uh, figured."
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