Rut City, Population: Me

I’m fried. Burned out. Toast. Beat to a pulp. Dead behind the eyes. Numb.

And I haven’t done anything physically taxing. It doesn’t make sense.

I’m suffering from knowing that I have no purpose, nothing to offer and nothing to show for my roughly four decades on this rock.

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: Being unemployed blows fucking donk.

It has zapped my energy, my will to create as well as my will to be out among the living. Sure, teeny, tiny freelance gigs trickle in from time to time, but that ain’t enough to put the thoughts of tri-state crime sprees out of my noggin. I listen to my friends bitch, whine and moan about their jobs, and I have to turn off all of my impulses to fucking throttle them with my she-woman strength.

There are times when I feel like this character from Game of Thrones, is hiding in the  surprisingly under-utilized section of my soul–she’s a loyal, badass who will fuck you up if you cross her.

Brienne of Tarth (courtesy of pandawhale.com)

A bit maudlin, I know, but I’m allowed. I still scroll through shitloads of job leads every day. Some I apply to, others get trashed.

Then, there are those job leads that cause me to utter aloud WHAT THE ENTIRE FUCK??

Don’t believe me? Here, check out this gem from a Houston all news-all the time-radio station.

Enjoy.

The actual requirements for the job–news editor/managing editor–were much shorter, see. And, they were typical news editor/ME duties like solid news judgment, assignment desk duties, AP Style knowledge, etc. When I read this list of “requirements” my first thought was, “Huh, yeaaaahhh…aren’t these requirements for being a well-adjusted adult?”

Not so fast.

So, as the news editor/ME, I wouldn’t be allowed to do my job–which entails being direct, sometimes demanding and expecting professionalism at all costs–but I’m not really allowed to express what I want for fear of hurting feelings or putting someone off.

I did send them a resume/cover letter combo platter and here’s a snippet of what I wrote, but nicer.

I’m a seasoned professional who is capable of working with others under stressful situations, and I expect that out of my colleagues as well. I’m tough, but fair because I realize that the news business is not always so. As for ‘evolving self-awareness’ — if you can explain what that is exactly, you’ll be able to hire whomever you choose.”

Of course, they called me.

Turns out, they have no clue about anything, and want tons of experience for roughly 9 bucks/hour and no (surprise!) relocation expenses paid even though this was advertised on a NATIONAL journo jobs website. A friend pointed out to me that the previous news editor/ME probably either got fired, or quit because he/she was doing their job, and not playing wet nurse to a bunch of fucking over-sensitive, pants-wetting, maladjusted dipshits.

Yeaaah … I’m gonna have to give you a big, fat NO.

The bigger picture here is this is what I am (and the millions of other US citizens who are unemployed) up against: These wish lists of skills put together by completely clueless hiring managers and HR departments who don’t know what they hell they’re talking about. I was recently asked to take geometry/algebra test for an editing job.

Yep, I shit you not.

I said no, then told the hiring manager that if I was going to be eliminated from consideration, is should be on a level playing field. I told her that testing me on something I haven’t done in almost 30 years is grossly unfair. She agreed and I didn’t have to take the test. I interviewed, and we’ll see if I get a call back.

Back to Houston, care to wager that they have an incredibly high turnover rate?

PS–I’ll be in NYC next week, so I’m sure I’ll have plenty to say. So, watch this space.

The Balcony is Closed

It’s been a while, I know, and I was all ready to write about something I came across earlier in the week.

However, I feel the need to pay tribute to someone who’s work meant a great deal to me–Roger Ebert–who died today after a long battle with cancer.

The Eberts at an event I covered in 2007.

His death saddens me tremendously because he was a huge voice, not only in film criticism, but in life in general. His prose and wit were unmatched (except by his late-partner in crime, Gene Siskel), and there isn’t a film critic today who comes close to his abilities. He knew how to read a film, then discuss it in a way that wasn’t condescending or obnoxious.

Ebert was a writer, first and foremost, and that made him so good at his job. His love of film just added to that talent.

As most I’ve mentioned before, I grew up in the Chicago area, so watching Siskel & Ebert, and eventually just Ebert, was required of all Illinois citizens. Also, we had to read their columns to learn how to write criticism, and well, how to write in general. After Siskel died, Ebert was the only critic I paid attention to. Sure, Kenneth Turan, A.O. Scott and Manohla Dargis are fine, but…meh…their work doesn’t compare to Ebert’s.

I’ve met Ebert a few times and each meeting, he was kind, gracious and witty. The most memorable was years ago when I was a senior at the University of Wisconsin. My father had the same lawyer as Siskel and Ebert, and said lawyer had an open house at his fab, newly rehabbed greystone in one of Chicago’s tonier neighborhoods. I was an obnoxious, know-it-all film student who became quite verklempt when I heard my father say, “Oh Mr. Ebert, I’d like you to meet my darling daughter, Julia. She’s a film student at Wisconsin, and will be graduating in a few weeks. Hey, any advice you can give her would be GREAT! THANKS!”

Aaaand, my dad disappeared toward the bar.

Thanks, dad.

Great.

This guy is gonna eviscerate me, test me on my knowledge and I’m gonna, like, dieeeee. Imagine my surprise when the exact opposite happened. Ebert and I spent the next hour or so discussing Kurosawa and how important his films are to not only the film world, but to the world in general. We discussed other film makers as well, but I believe that Ebert was touched by the fact that someone so young with an odd hairstyle, dug someone like Kurosawa. Siskel eventually tagged in and the two of us discussed Truffaut for another hour or so.

Needless to say, it was one of the most memorable moments of my life.

I could go on and on about Ebert, but I won’t. I do suggest reading his past columns and his essays on contemporary American life. He had a lot to say and the world will feel this tremendous loss for years.

I leave you with two things–one of my fave Ebert’s quotes, and a Sneak Previews/Siskel & Ebert episode where the two critics discuss the disturbing trend of violence toward women in films.

“’Kindness’ covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.” —Roger Ebert

And the clips–

Plus, a bonus out-take bit with Gene. Classic.

RIP, Roger. The City of Big Shoulders won’t be the same without you.

Damn.

“Second don’t count!”

Tomorrow, I will once again join the muckraking force and cover the corruption trial of Cook County Commissioner William Beavers.

William Beavers (courtesy of the Chicago Tribune)

Now, if you’ve been reading my blogs through the years AND if you pay any attention to politics in this country, you understand that Illinois politics–especially Chicago and Cook County politics–are a blood sport. We currently have two former-governors in prison, and if you’re an Illinois pol and aren’t either under investigation at some point in your career OR haven’t spent time in the pokey for something you did whilst in office, well, YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG. You’re a disappointment to the rich history that is the Illinois political carnival.

Freak show is more like it, come to think of it.

Back to Beavers, I interviewed him years ago after the whole John Stroger/Forrest Claypool Democratic primary showdown for the Cook County President election in 2006. See, Stroger stroked-out during the last days of the campaign and it’s alleged that his campaign kept it secret until the last possible second. Of course they did. Duh.  That’s the Chicago way.

So, when Stroger was declared non-compis mentis, many felt that the runner-up, Claypool, should’ve been handed the wheel to go head-to-head with the Republican challenger, Tony Peraica. Even though Claypool lost to Stroger in the primary, the Cook County Democratic Party endorsed Stroger’s spawn, Todd Stroger, to run against Peraica.

Forrest Claypool

Seriously–that’s like handing the casinos over to Fredo Corleone and telling him to have at it.

Anyhoo, I was in grad school during this whole Cook County President kerfuffle and had the dubious honor of interviewing Commissioner Beavers–who also happened to sucking the teat of the Stroger clan–about what was going on. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Commissioner Beavers–Now that John Stroger is basically circling the drain, doesn’t it seem fair to put the second place finisher–Claypool–up against Peraica?

Beavers: Huh? What’s that now? The second place finisher? Fair?? You kiddin’ me?? Well, lemme tell you something honey, SECOND DON’T COUNT!

There endeth the interview.

The Toddler won, which made for some fun times in Cook County. Seriously. A roasting pan would have done a better job at running Cook County than Todd did.

Starting tomorrow, check out gapersblock.com for my tales from the crypt that is the Dirksen Federal Court Building.

 

 

Natty Dreadlocks + McCrabass = Employment?

One of the amazing things about employment–mainly the people I know who have jobs–is how easy they seem to not only get jobs–but how they seem to move effortlessly from one high paying job to the next.

I guess most of these folks are deserving of these jobs and I’m happy for them (well not really), but what is glaringly obvious in this city is employers keep pulling from the same talent pool.

What creases me is these employers around these parts are not real keen on taking chances on folks who may have the drive, the will to work their asses off and the smarts to do a good job, but not the honor of having a name or an ‘in’, or comparable experience but not the exact experience.

This isn’t working for me. I find the media world in Chicago to be impenetrable, unless timing is on your side and you have a pocketful of great connections. It reminds me of the nepotism that permeates Hollywood, but with people who need to know something about all subjects, not just about making movies.

Call me crazy, but that myopic attitude doesn’t bode well for the future of media in this town.

Let’s take a gander at what has been polluting my RSS feed lately. There has been so much good stuff, but this one really caught my attention.

Man’s Hair Shaved Off And Stolen At Party, Dreadlock Thefts Rise In South Africa

Now, I understand that there are women in India who sell their beautiful, jet-black locks so that broads here in the US can have secksy long hair, but dreadlocks? I mean, aren’t hard-core dreads made out of shit, dirt (hair, natch) and other glue-like substances that cause the follicles to stick together?

Maybe it’s a ‘black thing’? I dunno. Perhaps this article from News One can explain it best, because White Girl Pearl here is at a loss.

Man’s Hair Shaved Off And Stolen At Party, Dreadlock Thefts Rise In South Africa

“Zimbabwean Mutsa Modonko experienced the epitome of a bad hair day when he was partying at a Johannesburg, South Africa, nightclub. After 10 years of growing his dreadlocks, friends at the party found him passed out with his head cleanly shaven, and according to Johannesburg’s Times Live, stealing dreadlocks is becoming a growing trend.”

Zimbabwean.. Zimbabwean.. say that word 10 times fast whilst drunk and speaking with a Cockney drawl. Then, do it again but this time in Pig Latin. It’s super fun!

“Natural hair and dreadlocks are huge business in South Africa.  The locks can be sold as hair extensions and can typically go for as much as $275, depending on the length.  As a matter of fact, the demand for the matted locks is so high that patrons often will not even question where the hair came from.”

Oh no, why would anyone want to question a product that is about to be sewn into their noggin? Hmm..this is kinda like a Brazilian waxologist who uses recycled muslin strips that are filled with a week’s worth of pubes. You’re welcome for that image, by the way.

“Hairstylist John Wushe, who owns a Johannesburg salon told Times Live, “They are becoming very popular. On a busy day we get about 10 people [wanting] to extend their hair.”

The stolen hair can be weaved on to the head of a male or female, whereas before, synthetic hair had been used for eons. The typical weaving-in process can take up to two hours and can be woven on to the head using a crochet hook or needle and thread.  A stylist can charge up to about $170 to weave in the dreadlocks.

(courtesy of BlackPlanetNext.com)

Although there appears to be numerous dreadlocks thefts, according to Johannesburg police, they have thus far received only one such report that came through last year.  Johannesburg police spokesman Captain John Maluleka told Times Live his department encourages residents to file police reports over such hair thefts, but he thinks their hesitation can be attributed to just sheer embarrassment.

In most of the cases, dreadlock thieves are zeroing in on the fairer sex, and according to Randburg hairstylist Lebo Masimong, he says, it is because women appear to be easier targets, “You are an easy target if you walk around the CBD (central business district) and your hair is loose. They don’t care about your money or fancy phone. They are only after your hair.”

What this story fails to tell us is how these thieves get the dreads–do they knock victims down then start shaving? Do they drug them then start shaving away? What kind of equipment do they use? Is there a middleman? Are they incorporated? What other bennies do they get? What are the hours? Are there promotions? Exactly what IS a promotion in this particular field?

I gotta know because I need a job and this might be a whole new thing for me.

 

A Somber Anniversary

This week marks a frustrating and sad anniversary for me: Two years ago–January 21, 2011–was my last day at my editing gig at a trade/B2B publication here in Chicago.

First, allow me to back it up a titch and regale you about how the fun began two weeks earlier.

I arrived at work on that crappy cold-as-fuck morning, had just enough time to put my stuff down on my desk, take off my coat, and say hello to my co-workers before the Editor-in-Chief asked me to take a walk with him. I found this a bit odd since he never paid me much attention, unless it was to gripe about something, or if he needed me to order some sort of pen.

So, when we rounded the corner that separated the newsroom from sales, and into a small conference room where the resident HR drone was waiting, my stomach flip-flopped. My mouth went dry and my chest felt like it was going to resemble Kane’s in “Alien”–but with my heart bursting out & smacking both the EIC and HR right in their mugs instead of a parasite that would eventually kill the entire fucking masthead. A wry smile crossed my lips for a brief second at that thought, but it quickly vanished when I heard the following:

“Um, yeah. Julia. We’re going to lay you off–it’s nothing personal of course–we’re just eliminating your position so we can add more to the sales team.”

What happened next few minutes was a blur. I do, however, remember giving the EIC a look that would kill a planet, tightening my jaw until it ached and feeling the tears starting to build up. Sadly, the death glare didn’t land because he wouldn’t look me in the face, but he did manage to set the land speed record for waddling out of the conference room so he could alert my colleagues of my fate.

You know, to save face and look like a fucking hero.

“Gosh, we really like Julia, but tight budgets are preventing us from keeping her on. So, I know she’s looking for work, so please help her out if you can.”

My immediate boss was absent that day so when she got my tearful phonecall an hour later, needless to say, she was furious. The next couple of weeks were a blur of phonecalls to friends slash possible employers, resume prep, buckets of tears, lashing out at everyone, allowing my shocked soon-to-be-former co-workers take me out for lunches and post-work drinks, and trying my damndest to not kick both the EIC and ME in the balls. It took alll of my god-given strength to NOT throw my ass in the shitastic Chicago River when I learned that an intern would be doing my job.

Not personal, eh? Go fuck yourself.

The last couple of years hurled all sorts of puke/jiz-filled crappy crap at me. I don’t know which moments were the most fucked-in-the-head: Was it the the snow storm that hit the area about a week after I was canned? Or was it the pubic-hair freezing cold that pounded Chicago in the ass afterwards? Or, was it going out to LA to look for work and have many jobs dangled in front of me only to have them taken away just as I was making arrangements to move my life west? Maybe it was three interviews I had with a certain Chicago media outlet that always hired someone too young and inexperienced over me, only to have that person leave a few months later because the work was “too hard.” This happened three times.

It coulda been the publisher in Florida who flat-out asked me my age during a phone interview, and when I gently reminded him that what he was asking me was, gosh, ILLEGAL, he proclaimed he didn’t care. I ended the interview soon after.

Perhaps it was the approximately 500 carefully crafted resumes with the appropriate key words and phrases I sent out that were probably mocked, laughed at and tossed in digital circular files–I have no idea which one of these events have helped push me down Crap Mountain the fastest, but I do know this much–

THE LAST TWO YEARS HAVE BEEN A MAJOR PIG FUCK.

Somedays, I can’t move. I don’t leave the apartment. I read my New York Times, the New Yorker, maybe watch my stories on the tee vee, watch porn on the computer–anything to distract me from the fact that I am a miserable failure. While I am well aware that there are many in my situation–and in worse situations–I can’t worry about them. Does that make me cold & heartless? Naah, it makes me realistic because I highly doubt they give a red rat’s ass about me.

Other days, I work on my book that no one will ever read, do Bikram yoga and consider cooking meth in my kitchen. I help other friends find work, read reports and a thesis or two for a pittance. I cheer when my friends find work, and am sad for them when they lose their jobs. My happiness for their successes is genuine, but so is my anger and resentment. It’s difficult to be around friends who are successful and have jobs, so I don’t go out much. Plus, this city is expensive.

I’m thankful for my health (knock on wood), and the facts that I’m well-educated, and don’t have a mortgage or kids to worry about. I don’t want to think about where I’d be if either of those were a factor.

I felt some cold-comfort upon learning that both the EIC and ME were canned under new management. Since it’s not my style to revel in someone else’s misfortunes, my happiness immediately turned to concern because they both have families and mortgages. But then again, they’ll probably find work before I do, so fuck ‘em.

So, what am I to do? Keep getting out of bed every day. Keep on with the writing because my book is turning out to be a gem.

And most of all, not listen to those folks who tell me I can’t succeed. One of ‘those folks’ happens to be me, but that voice is getting fainter and fainter with each passing moment.

I think Madonna said it best below.

Blah blah n’ shit

I understand that at least two of my three readers are wondering where I’ve been, so I thought I’d write a quick post to let you two know that I am alive, AND will start writing again once I roadtrip to the WordPress headquarters and kick the snot out of the person who decided it would be a good thing to change the home page. It’s annoying the fuck out of me.

Also, starting Monday, I’ll be covering this trial for Gaper’s Block. Once again, the Chicago Police Department fucked up and tried to hide it, and ONCE AGAIN, their horrible, choady behavior got their asses all caught n’ shit. The federal court room where this trial will take place will be a house of horrors for a few weeks. Also, why oh why the City of Chicago didn’t settle this case has me flummoxed.

So stay tuned, my friends, because this trial will certainly produce some ripping good yarns for me to pass onto you.

Finally …

Just a friendly reminder that this happened:

(Courtesy of HuffPo)

 

 

My Uh-Duh! Moment

Remember Oprah? You know, the one-woman media magnate who revitalized Chicago’s West Loop, gave audience members cars, did Stedman and maybe Gayle, got people reading again, is responsible for unleashing the hackfests that are Drs. Phil & Oz and Suze Orman, and who empowered millions of upper-middle class women the world over? Yep, that Oprah–the one and only.

During her media tenure, Oprah had several positive, love thyself phrases that were seen as avenues her fans could travel in order to live better lives. (Nothing wrong with trying to better one’s life, of course.) One was the whole “Remembering Your Spirit” vignettes that were popular in the early aughts, and one of the last ones was “Aha! Moments.” Basically, Aha! Moments are similar to “Come to Jesus” moments or EPIPHANIES as they are known to us non-religious folks. Some person (usually a woman) figures out somewhere along the line that her life is more than a dress size, her baby-making abilities and by being a dutiful daughter/sister/niece/wife/aunt, etc.

Oprah’s magazine and tee vee show featured mainly the Aha! Moments of famous folks, who have all the money ever but decided it’s necessary to give back to us serfs. Most efforts are to be applauded because, dammit, they should be giving back. Some of these moments are just famous folks engaging in navel gazing and that’s just boring as all hell.

I’ve had a few Aha! Moments in my life. (this ain’t one, but the vid still works)

One moment urged me to go to school in Southern California, then another brought me back to finish my studies in Madison. Oh, then there was the engagement that ended badly in my 20s…then the switching of careers and moving back to the Midwest….yeah.

What else? Yes, getting a master’s degree which lead to me getting my ass kicked in a new, but fab, career. Super fun!

Most of my Aha! Moments have been good for my soul, but then there are those that kicked the ever-lovin’ crap outta me, watched me crumble, then came back and kicked me AGAIN just for shits and giggles. I’ve realized since that life is one, big, fat, steaming pile of chunk-filled Aha! Moments. The trick is learning how to handle them with grace, humor and a pair of handwraps, boxing gloves and a heavy bag.

Now that I’ve got THAT figured out, onto what Uh-Duh! Moments are. Simply, Uh-Duh! Moments are “what the hell did I just do?” moments. I’ve had a shitload of them in my life and it’s safe to say that MOST of those moments have occurred in the past couple of years. I’m not exactly proud of these “oops” either, but I figured I’d share them here so y’all can either point & mock, or nod your heads, sigh and utter ‘Yeah, I’ve done that too, Julia.”

The first one involves honey.

This particular Uh-Duh! Moment made me realize that I truly hate honey. Loathe it actually. I think it’s disgusting and tastes like what I imagine rancid bee sweat mixed with bee urine tastes like. I’ve given it my all–tried to develop a taste for it by serving it on toast, in my tea, my oatmeal, and I even used it in my hair–what the fuck for–I don’t know. Well, I thought I’d be the bigger person and give it one more shot.

This time, I used it on my face because the woman who waxes me (shut UP) said it made a great facial mask because it was all natural and has some sort of healing qualities. Ok, ok, I said to her as she was putting wax on places that don’t normally need wax (ahem), I’ll give it a try. Again.

So, a couple of nights ago, I had a couple of gals over for a semi-nude slumber party and we decided to try the honey facial mask treatment. We each put our hair in pigtails, giggled A LOT, slipped into our silk camis, Hello Kitty! tap pants, and our Uggs, and then slathered our mugs in warm honey.

Then, we left it there for about 15 minutes and during that time, chose teams for the midnight pillow fight (my team won, natch). After rinsing the golden ooze from my face and hair, I kept waiting for the healing qualities to happen. Five minutes went by–nothing. Fifteen, 20, 25–still nothing. At thirty minutes, my skin was starting to tighten and darken like the skin on one of Ed Gein’s lampshades. Feeling the anger starting to rise and my feet starting to sweat in my Uggs, I slathered my face in uber-hydrating moisturizer, and kicked my Uggs off. After a brief tickle fight with the gals, I tossed the bottle of honey in the trash.

The following morning while I was cleaning up post-semi nude slumber party, I wondered why I had given honey another chance–I hated it years ago–how was that going to change now?

Hmm…maybe it’s not only a Ah-Duh! Moment, it’s an I’m frickin’ stupid moment too.

30 Things I’m Dumping in 2013

Here’s a long-ass list of stuff I’m dumping from my life in 2013:

1) Unemployment

2) Ambien

3) Trying to please people who don’t give a shit about me.

4) Not taking care of myself emotionally.

5) Not taking care of myself physically.

6) Chicago

7) This overwhelming sense that I’m a complete failure.

8) Forgetting friends’ important life events.

9) Swearing

10) Unsightly pit stains.

11) Body hair that’s long enough to braid

12) The body in the trunk of my car.

13) Bread–the food, not the band.

14) People named Poindexter, Mitt, Karl Rove, and Cheney.

15) The gangsta lifestyle. I don’t have the ass for it.

16) Gene Hackman’s knickers

17) Cheap liquor

18) Cheap hookers

19) Leo Sayer –he’s been hogging my couch for too damn long.

20) Expectations of any sort.

21) Sarcasm

22) My bad attitude toward stupid people who are more successful than I am.

23) My bad attitude toward asshole people who are more successful than I am.

24) Clutter

25) Self doubt.

26) Fear of success

27) Stuff

28) That chaise on the sun porch. It’s a chaise of pain.

29) That weird item in my glove box. It’s starting to creep me out.

30) Threeve.

 

 

After 50, It’s All Patch, Patch, Patch …

I’ve been pondering lately why I am a writer slash journalist. Is it because my great-grandfather was a writer slash journalist? Is it because I love it? Is it because I’m allll about telling stories, making up characters and whatnot? Is it because I looooove digging through public records, getting irascible sources to talk to me? Is it because I adore composing FOIAs in my sleep? NOOO! It’s because I knew that someday I would compose something pithy enough to capture the attention of one Jon Erickson.

Why…yes..YES that IS the reason.

Erickson, a fellow Chicagoan who is now an Ohioan who blogs, has a birthday today–a big one too–the big 5-0.

Happy, happy to the only man over 20 who uses emoticons more than a 13-year-old girl.  Keep on keepin’ on!

Shit Faced

I had to absorb this tome a titch before I wrote about it. Let it soak into my pores, my being..

From NBC5 Chicago.

CTA Passenger Attacked With Sock Filled With Human Feces

I live in Chicago and I’ve seen a lot of strange, ahem, shit. I have a love/hate relationship with this city–always have, always will. Somedays, this is a stellar city with its magnificent skyline, vibrant neighborhoods, cul-cha, colorful pols,and so-so sports teams.

Best. Skyline. Ever. (courtesy of blog.chicagodetours.com)

However, like any major city, Chicago is rife with issues and odd people. Very odd, and oddly enough, most of those folks use the Chicago Transit Authority as way to get around and well, do stupid, um, shit. One of the more livelyl El lines is the Blue Line, which goes to O’Hare and out to Forest Park. I’ve ridden it many times, and have experienced/witnessed many gross things–a dude get a blowie across from me (mid-day on the Red Line), sitting in a pee-soaked seat (the Purple Line north, a Loop-bound Brown Line), saw someone shoot Vitamin H & ask if I had a spoon on me (Red Line), being asked if I thought a besotted gentleman’s wedding tackle was ‘doable’ (It wasn’t. Again, the Red Line) and so on.

But, I have never had someone fling a SOCK OF POO in my face.

“A woman riding the Chicago Transit Authority’s Blue Line in Oak Park told police she was last week attacked by another passenger wielding a sock filled with human feces.

“He had a sock full of his poop on me,” the 21-year-old college student told the Pioneer Press. ”It was everywhere; on my face, my hair, my clothes.”

The victim, requesting anonymity, said she screamed and tried to follow her attacker, but he escaped up the Austin Boulevard exit and ran northbound on Austin.”

We’ve all stepped in shit, maybe even slipped & fell into it (shut UP), chucked it at someone in a drunken rage (shhh) and MAYBE served it to an ex-beau after it turned out he was a major fuckweasel (ummmm, not I), but having a sockful of it slapped in your face is certainly a first for, well, everyone EVER.

No wonder the victim wanted to remain anonymous.

“It was like the biggest degradation I’ve ever [experienced]. I wish he had just hit me,” she said, because she thinks that would have been less traumatic.”

Yeah, no shit.

On a related note, I’m sure this photo has been ‘shopped, but so what–it’s a HOOT.

(courtesy Facebook)