I’m back.. sort of. I’ve been in a funk for the past few weeks–job rejections and weird personal stuff–good, bad and sad–have sidelined me for a bit.
Y’all ain’t rid of me yet, though. You’ll see soon enough.
First, some fun. Ahem.
Feast yer peepers at this impressive hunk of man-meat, then check out Mickey Rourke.
Question: When did he start looking like my dead great-grandmother?
Then, I found this.
I think the meaning of life is in this photo. I’ve figure it out, now let’s see what you can conjure up.
In the meantime, I’m in the early stages of developing a podcast of sorts with a few of my pals here in the Windy City, and well, beyond too. Since there ain’t shit in this town for work for a fab gal like myself, I gotta find other ways to fill my days that don’t entail booze, men, hooch and free Internet porn. I’ve got a damn fine brain and wicked sense of humor, I might as well put the two to good use. I also have smart, witty friends who I know would love to join in the fun.
So, please feel free to send me topic ideas and if you want to be a guest, well, we can discuss that too.
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.
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, colorfulpols,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.
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.
When it’s easier to get a gun than mental healthcare in this country, it’s time to nuke this place from space and start over.
I’d love to know just how many people (read: CHILDREN) have to die in the name of the oh-so-outdated and UNNECESSARY Second Amendment? Are guns that much more important than a healthy and productive society? Guns have no place in modern society–maybe that’s naive and if it is, fuck you.
The worst part is what happened today in Newtown will happen again and again before Obama and Congress decide to grow a pair and take the gun lobby on. This isn’t a time to cling to your personal rights, this is the time to put down your beloved gun, put on a brave face, and admit that YES, a well-armed society is a doomed society.
This is ridiculous, folks. Twenty children died today along with six adults. Don’t throw that tired, fucked-in-the-head “Guns don’t kill people, people kill people” mantra at me because it’s thoughtless, cruel and so shit-covered that the even the most hungry of species wouldn’t eat it to save itself. As of this week, concealed-carry is now a go in Illinois. I had such high hopes for my home state–hopes that we weren’t gonna have to watch the paranoia parade that the NRA and its minions have been goose-stepping around this country–take place on my home turf. But it happened and once again, the rights of weaponry trump the rights of humans.
Take a moment and look around you–we live in a society. Sure, there are bad elements here and there–I live in Chicago fer chrissake–which has the highest murder rate so far in the Land of the Free–but does this mean we have to arm ourselves to the rafters because of what MIGHT happen? If you’re that paranoid, take the money you were going to spend on a gun and a license, and pay for some sessions with a psychiatrist. If you still feel the same way about owning a gun because it’s your ‘right’, then you’re ‘brave’ enough to spend some time with a parent who lost a child today and tell him/her why your gun is so important.
If you’re like me, the first smell that popped into your mind was the lingering, gut-wrenching stench of the Chicago stockyards circa 1920. Ahh..yes. The aroma of rotting meat, with shit and sweat as a top note and blood and the sweat of child laborers as a bottom note. I imagine there would be several versions of this particular Chicago scent: The summer choice smells like meat spoiling in the sun with vulture shit as the winning top note, and for winter it’s hooves, tails, innerds and ears all mixed together with a top note of figgy pudding and coal.
The other obvious Chicago scent possibilities are some sort of parfum replicating what it’s like to catch a whiff of a whore house at low-tide, or a Corruption Cologne which is a combo platter of Blago’s hair gel, Rahm’s dance belt after two matinees of “Pippin” at Peoria’s finest dinner theater, and Gov. Dan Walker’s socks AND toe jam after walking the length of Illinois during the 1971 gubernatorial campaign.
Turns out this new perfume is festooned with flowers and whatnot. Yawn. I guess they realized they wouldn’t sell as many units had they gone with any of my grand ideas. Harumph. Back to journalism for me.
I’m convinced that some male fashion designers absolutely abhor women. They make shit for, what they claim, is for art’s sake when in reality they fucking hate us.
Don’t believe me? Well, feast your peepers on these fab frocks and please, by all means, tell me what you think.
And, finally … nothing quite says art like a big, stank-ass ashtray with a smoldering cig in it that’s really a chapeau:
(courtesy of puppiesandflowers.com)
Once upon a time, actually it’s more like once upon many a-time, I puked up stuff resembling these threads. That was a time when I was knee-deep in a nasty-as-fuck eating disorder where refunding food was a common occurrence. So, it’s only natural that when I gaze upon such stuff, it’s like a bulimic ‘Nam PTSD flashback minus the “DIDI MAO!!”, rats eating through my tumtum to get out of the bamboo/water trap and Charlie. Thank dog that I no longer do such a thing. Instead, I prefer to showcase my self-loathing via this blog, and by committing petty crimes like flipping off truckers on the interstate and flashin’ mah boobs at the religious nutlies who dare to ring my bell.
All was well and good. Then came you.
Fortunately, this didn’t cause me to stick my fingers down my throat, but it did give me one helluva chuckle. After watching it a few times, it reminded me of something. Long lead-in, but it’s worth the wait.
There. That’s much better.
What’s next?
Oh yeah. While I was shopping for various sundries and my weekly supply of box wine, I had a wee run-in with one of the neighborhood’s more colorful characters. I’ve seen this woman around from time to time–yelling at trees and fire hydrants–whatever object is harshing her mellow that day. She’s harmless–as far as I can tell–and she’s never said one word to me.
Until today.
After my reign of terror in Jewel, I was pushing my goods in a cart out to my car. I was in my own little McCrabass universe so I didn’t notice her quickly sidling up to me. By the time I spied her, it was too late. I turned just in time to catch some spit with my cheek and a dirty hand moving quickly to my head.
“WITCH! WITCH!”
I know, I was surprised too, but not really. I’ve been called worse and consider being called a “witch” a huge compliment, a badge of honor if you will. Unlike Christine O’Donnell, it would be easy for me to capitalize on this moniker.
Ruh-roh, I forgot to mention an important detail here. I had a layer of my chocolate-thunder brown hair dyed dark purple/blue. Also, the ends in the back look like they’ve been ‘dipped’ in the same color. It’s subtle, and looks good. Not outlandish at all, and considering what I’ve seen lurking on the streets of Chicago, my hair color is fucking Ann Romney-esque in comparison.
Not according to my touched little friend.
I grabbed her paw just as she was about to fondle my purple goods.
“Oh, no touch, dearest. You touch me and you’ll lose your hand, mmmkay?” I said, my eyes locked on hers.
I noticed then she looked an awful lot like Miles Davis and it gave me pause, but not for long. There was no time to ponder this similarity since her other hand was careening quickly toward my hair. This time, I slapped her hand away, put my hand up, palm facing her and raised my voice.
“You try this again and it ain’t gonna be pretty. I suggest you walk away before you get hurt.”
My heart was pounding by this point because this woman was big — bigger than me. I was scared shitless but my eyes never left hers. She finally backed down and started to wander off. I watched as she stomped off and was about to get into my car when it appeared she was at a safe distance, when she spun on her heels and screeched:
“I CURSE YOU AND YOUR PURPLE HAIR YOU FUCKING BITCH!!”
With that, I blew her a kiss, got in my car and drove home.
Sorry–it took me a while to dry my eyes and don some clean knickers. Ahem. Sometimes laughter ain’t the best medicine, and whoever said that needs to have their balls shaved with a dull, dirty razor. Then, that person needs to sit for a long, long time in a big pile of salt. Man oh man, I would be aces at torture.
Anyhoo, currently I’m staring at the dirty asshole of 21 months of unemployment. Yep. I’ve written about this before but now this sitch is getting mighty damn ridiculous. In the past 48 hours, I’ve receivedthreetears/sobs-producing rejections. I would’ve loved to work at any of these places, but once again, I was told in so many words that I suck shit. That I’m not worthy of employment at all, and that I should just give up.
Well, I have. Stick a fork in me folks because I’m done.
Over 500 carefully crafted resumes and cover letters have been sent, networking and ass-kissing has been accomplished (I deserve an Oscar) and I’ve “Linked In” up the whazoo. Stories I’ve pitched are ignored or given to someone else to write. I’ve even started this extreme diet because all of the places I’ve interviewed at are inhabited by uber-thin folks. Next up: Botox and skin-lightening treatments.
I’ve learned a lot, met a lot of good people, but not enough apparently.
Meanwhile, half-wit woman hater Todd Akin doesn’t know the difference between an abortion and a D&C and people want him to help lead this country? Oh, dearest Julia, surely you gest! No one can be that thick! See, this is what happens when you let God into politics. Or, when you think you know how God would rule on such matters.
Watch:
My plans? To lay low for the rest of the year because 2012 ain’t no longer worthy of my time.
It’s been a shit-fuck-ass mess of a year. Nothing has worked out and that just boggles me wee noggin. Now, normally I’m not one to wish my life away, but as for the rest of 2012, well, I ain’t participating. This year had a chance and it blew it. Big time. It’ll be interesting to see if I even decide my vote is worth it. The current POTUS hasn’t done shit for me so why should I even bother? Or, maybe this guy has the right idea?
I was alerted about this vidya earlier today by one of my sisters, and it still makes me cackle like a scary old broad who’s watching her mangy, rabid dog chase the neighborhood chirrun out of her damn yard.
This happened at a recent Chicago Cubs/Pittsburgh Pirates night game at Wrigley Field.
One caveat here — I am not a baseball fan. It’s not something I follow, but I will go to a game from time to time if the ticket is free and I’m plied with enough alcohol. Kidding about the alcohol part. Ok, ok …I’ll go if there’s an unlimited supply of ballpark hotdogs and Coolie Coos (or whatever they’re called) waiting for me at the park.
I do know this much about baseball: The Cubs blow donk and Wrigley Field is the world’s largest beer garden–but probably with more piss and puke strewn about, and guys with up-turned collars on their polo shirts and backwards baseball caps. Ew.
Plus, I used to live near Wrigley, and I grew weary of Cub fans from Schaumburg sullying my neighborhood with their shitty beer vomit and Schaumburgian ways. And the post-game puke on my car always killed my sunny disposition, and that memory is still knocking around the obsidian-like part of my soul.
However, this performance may restore my faith in America’s Game or whatever it’s called.
I think the meaning of life is in this photo. I’ve figure it out, now let’s see what you can conjure up.
