Peace out, 2011!

Happy Holidays!  (shhhhhh!  Don't tell Fox News that I'm continuing my assault on Christmas!)

It's been an interesting year, kids.  I celebrated my one year wedding anniversary with my gorgeous wife--who can totally do better, by the way--and last week we finally sent out our thank you cards from our wedding 19 months ago.  Look for yours in the mail today!

Sadly, my Mom died, which sucked immensely.  She continues to be missed.

Speaking of suck, I went to the Bears came last week and took my Brother-in-Law, Jamie.  Born and raised in the heart of Georgia, he is a true good ol' boy.  To properly prep him for his first heinous winter, I took him to his first Bears game last week, against the Seattle Seahawks.  Too bad the Bears forgot to show up.  I think the final score was 188-7 although I might be wrong about that...we couldn't have possibly scored a touchdown, right? 

We had the worlds worst seats--the only seats in the stadium, it seemed, where the sun didn't shine--up beneath the spaceship, 3 rows from the top, where ice from the exterior of the building kept falling on us.  It was damn cold.  However, we had been drinking since 10am and were quite insulated from the elements.  Our brave southerner?  Don't worry about that...the cold didn't seem to bother him:

"Fuck YOU, Seattle!!!"  --Jamie

Anyhow, I wanted to say goodbye to not only 2011, but to my fearless readership of 9.  I'm not permanently going away, of course.  But I'm taking tomorrow off, then it's Christmas, then I have a week off and won't return to work until January 2nd.  Why is this important?  Well, I pretty much only blog at work these days.

You see, the neighbor from whom we were stealing wireless internet had the audacity to move away at the end of October so we now find ourselves without the interwebs.   Combine that with the fact that Krishni's family is coming in town for the next 9 days and I fear I will not find the time to slip away and pound out a decent entry on my iPhone.  Perhaps, if we're all lucky, I'll get liquored up on Christmas day and blog something like "Blargh shompum WINE!  Bby Jesuss?  Snata!  WINE!".

However, if I do not get that opportunity, I just wanted to thank you for reading my other drunken comments this year.  It's been fun and when I finish my "Evil Jesus" screenplay, you all will be the first to know.  After Krishni, of course.  And my Dad.  And probably whomever Krishni tells.  So, you'll be, like, the 16th through 24th people to know.

May Santa leave you coal in your stocking.  Because, you know, we'll need that to keep warm once the economy collapses.  It never hurts to plan ahead.

Merry Christmas, all!  With or without the "Christ".

A Very Calvin and Hobbes Christmas

Growing up I loved exactly two comics:  Gary Larson's The Far Side and Bill Watterson's Calvin and Hobbes.  This in itself is not unique but because I had older sisters who also loved these comics, I was indoctrinated into them at a very, very early age. 

I loved the dark, dark art involved even before I really understood the dark, dark jokes.  In retrospect, maybe a dead Puff the Magic Dragon, washed up on shore after an oil spill in that one Far Side or that blind, peg-legged leprechaun hung upside down in that other panel really launched my love for black comedy.  It makes an awful lot of sense when you think about it.

Over the years, Gary Larson really, really whored himself out.  In a similar situation, I would have likely done the same.  Even today, nearly 17 years after Larson's retirement, you can find all sorts of Far Side swag on sale at Amazon: t-shirts, mugs, calendars, posters, bumper stickers, etc.  Obviously, you can also buy his books, including the "Complete Collection" which weighs an astounding 19.8 pounds.  Dude must have made a lot of money.

Conversely, Bill Watterson went in the opposite direction.  He went out of his way to make sure Calvin and Hobbes were not destined to end up on greeting cards, birthday cakes and all of the other swag listed above.  He battled his publisher about his artistic integrity and in his books, he comes off as kind of a dick about it.  He thought that the endless commercialization of C&H would cheapen the characters.  He's probably right but it didn't cheapen my love for the world Gary Larson had created.  However, I know that I have formed very distinct voices for both Calvin and Hobbes in my head and I would hate, say, a television program to destroy those voices. After reading Jim Davis' series throughout my childhood, I know that the TV version of Garfield certainly sounded weird to me.

When he (rather abruptly) retired back in 1995, Watterson just sort of disappeared.  He will pop up occasionally, writing a forward for a book here and there but he seems quite content with his decision to retire.  Good for him.  But that doesn't mean I don't miss Calvin and his good ol' friend Hobbes.  With no new material from Watterson, we were left with badly-drawn Calvins pissing on Ford and Chevy logos or horribly depressing knock-off versions of the comic:

Thankfully, not all the tributes and knock-offs make me want to slit my wrists.  Calvin and Hobbes resonated in a tremendous fashion with it's audience.  Calvin's earnest zest for life and imagination hit home with a lot of kids like me.  Hobbes' sage, sardonic and loyal--and yet very cat-like and playful--personality always struck me as the best friend any kid could hope to have.  These characters stuck with millions of readers like me, long after Watterson stopped drawing the strip.

I truly believe this:  the last Calvin and Hobbes collection--It's a Magical World--has more wisdom within it's pages than any other book ever written.  More wisdom, yes, than even the bible.  In fact, upon entering our home you may notice that my amazing wife has framed the final comic from the series in our front hall.

(click to enlarge)

Obviously, I am not alone in this love of Calvin, his friend and his world.  Because of this passion, fans far more artistic than I have been doing all sorts of fantastic projects over the years, many involving Calvin's iconic snowmen:

Clearly, the world of C&H fandom was just waiting for the right mix of music, snowmen and death to cheer up the holidays.  At long last, I believe that need has been met:

Merry Christmas!

This only makes me want Taco Bell that much more

As if we needed a counter-point to my previous post:

The Super Fantastic MJ Excellent Weight Loss Challenge Bonanza!

I joined a gym.

As the calender continues to flip and I get older by the minute, I'm starting to notice funny changes in my body.  You tend to notice these changes when you find yourself heavily wheezing on the bus because you had to run 40 yards at a full sprint to catch the damn thing.  Also, I've found myself saying things like, "Huh.  You didn't have that 3rd chin yesterday". 

So, I joined a gym.  Many moons ago, when I was gainfully employed at Steppenwolf Theatre Company, I was relatively healthy.  There was a YMCA down the street from the 'Wolf that was everything I looked for in a gym:  it had two basketball courts.  About 3 or 4 times a week, I would drive the half mile to the Y--in retrospect, this might have been part of the problem--and I would lace up my hoops shoes and run around for an hour.  Since they had two courts, I would let all the kids from Cabrini Green dunk on one and I would shoot hoops with the older white guys on the other.  Occasionally, they kids would need a 10th for their game I would run over and try to keep my guy in front of me.  Usually by fouling as hard as I could.  Sure, I never scored much but they respected me because they liked my hustle!  They must have; they only pants-ed me once.

Sadly, they tore the place down and I think there is a retirement home on the land now.  On that day, back in 2006, I stopped exercising.

Since then, there have been an awful lot of Kraft dinners, whiskey, pizza and couch.  And since then, I've gained an awful lot of weight.

So, in a continuing effort to please my wife sexually, I decided it was time to shed those unsightly pounds.  I found a gym a half-block from my house and, really, if it was any farther, I would just give up and climb the escalator of weight gain to 300 pounds or so.  But since it is directly across the street from where my bus lets me off each night, there really is no excuse.  I have a choice each night:  White Castle or B&W Gym.  I appreciate my intestines too much to be a patron of White Castle. 

The Gym itself is hilarious.  It is a gym for "serious" weightlifters and has dozens of pictures up of dudes with vein-busting muscles.  The first night I walked in, I was immediately taken back to high school:  the gym, in a basement beneath a discount furniture store, smells exactly like the weight room in the basement beneath the old gym at Benet Academy.  I've never been there when there were more than 5 or 6 people walking around, lifting weights, flexing into the mirrors, etc.

What did I do?  I rode the exercise bike.  Manly, I know, but remember, I haven't exercised in 5 years.  At all.  Seriously, the most exercise I've gotten was walking around the French Quarter for 3 days while I drank heavily.  Feel the burn!

Last night, in my first trip to B&W Gym to actually sweat a bit, I rode the exer-cycle for two miles, got winded and quit.

This might take a while.

This should clear things up.

(Click for a larger image)

One final note on Home Alone while I wait to be fired

Did you know that Elvis Presley was in Home Alone?  It's true!  You know, if we're to believe the bat-shit crazy fringe of society (speaking of which...I'm going to miss Herman Cain and Rick Perry and Michelle Bachmann and Rick Santorum.  They brought so much light to my life).

Seriously.  They were the best.

Anyhow, back to the subject at hand.  Yes!  Elvis Presley--despite the normally-severe disadvantage of having died in 1977--appeared in the greatest Christmas movie of all time.  If you take the time to Google "Elvis Presley Home Alone"--and why wouldn't you?--you come upon all sorts of websites dedicated to the long held belief that ol' Elvis is still alive and kicking and appearing in Christmas movies.

At the time of Home Alone's release in 1990, The King would have been 55 years old.  In the scene where Kevin's Mother is arguing with Steppenwolf Ensemble Member Alan Wilder at the Scranton Airport (just before she meets John Candy and the rest of the Kenosha Kickers), there is an extra standing in the background that is, apparently, Elvis Presley.  A not-dead Elvis Presley.  Don't believe me?  As they say, the proof is in the pudding:

See him?  Over her left shoulder?

Not buying it yet?  Well, let's compare Elvis and this fellow, shall we?

Prooooooooooooof!

Further prooooooooooooooof! 

I did a cursory check around the interwebs for further, photographic evidence that Elvis is alive and well, surviving in a new career as an extra in movies shot exclusively in the midwest, but could not find any such proof.  Well, actually, I just got bored with the search and quit altogether to re-review the Lindsay Lohan pictures at i.playboy.com.

I've reluctantly come to the conclusion that Elvis is, in fact, dead.  The interwebs overwhelmingly told me so.  I have nothing further to say on the subject other than this is a pretty funny picture: 

There's a "Hunka Hunka Burnin' Cross" joke there somewhere. 

Explaining Home Alone

Here's a fact for you:  Home Alone is the greatest Christmas movie ever made.  There, I said it.  Wanna fight about it?

I strongly believe this.  Perhaps growing up in the 80's disillusioned me enough to not truly believe in the cheesy sentiment of It's a Wonderful Life.  Having never seen Miracle on 34th Street, I can't say if it is the best but since it is in black and white, I strongly suspect it is not.  Since I didn't grow up in the 50's, maybe this means I can never truly appreciate the gun-demanding obsession from A Christmas Story.  (Fun fact!  The kid that played Flick in A Christmas Story--the one that got his tongue stuck to the flagpole--later went on to appear in a decidedly different movie that featured tongues on poles):

True story

Maybe it's because Home Alone was right in my age-appropriate wheel-house when it came out in 1990 but it's been a little tradition of mine since then that whenever I set up the Christmas tree in my house,  it has to be on my TV.  I vividly remember my Godfather taking me to see the movie upon it's release in 1990.  I loved it so much that I came home and performed every scene for my Dad while he was raking leaves and then strong-armed him into taking me to see it again the next day.

Now, when I talk about greatness in this movie, I'm not even talking about the slap-stick, near-homicides of the burglars at the end.  I'm talking about the delirious joy of a kid doing all the things over Christmas I would have done had I been abandoned, a down-right beyond-his-years performance from Mac, a great score from John Williams, some surprisingly subtle direction from Chris Columbus and the best scene in the movie:  Kevin and Marley coming to terms with what Christmas means in the church.

I love this scene.  Krishni even stopped talking in the middle of a story the other night because she knew I wouldn't be listening to her.  From the "I had a friend who got nailed because there was a rumor he wore dinosaur pajamas" sequence, to the Christ, is this kid still talking? "Yeah" that Marley mumbles out, to the chorus singing throughout the scene, to the band-aid hand shake at the end...just awesome.

Krishni pointed out to me that this guy died in July.  Rest in Peace, South Side Shovel Slayer

If you don't already feel this way about Home Alone, you never will.  I feel that there is nothing I can say or do to convince you otherwise.  However, that hasn't stopped other people from doing so.

Ever been to www.imdb.com?  It stands for the "Internet Movie Database" and it is your one-stop shop for everything you will ever need to know about any movie.  Within, you will find the full cast and crew, sound track listings, running times, trailers, reviews and all sorts of fun trivia for any given movie.  Under the "Fun Stuff" section for Home Alone, there is a section called "Goofs".  Normally, this is where incredibly anal nerds who have scoured movies for continuity errors or anachronisms try to kill the fun of movie magic.  But I noticed something the other night that bothered me...not because of the previously mentioned anal nerds but because of anal nerds that had to explain jokes. 

For instance, there is a very funny scene where Kevin goes grocery shopping to buy milk, fabric softener and--because he's 8--a bag of army guys.  When the bagger swipes said bag, she gives him a knowing look and he justifies the purchase by saying "It's for the kids".  A normal person would say, "Ha!  That's a funny bit!"  However, someone at imdb.com felt the need to break the joke down for the reader (emphasis mine):

"When Kevin is at the counter of the grocery store, the clerk scans a bag of toy soldiers and looks at Kevin. He says 'It's for the kids'. But when the clerk asks, 'What about your brothers and sisters?' Kevin replies, 'I'm an only child.' While this seems that Kevin is stumbling over his lies, he is not. He is at the grocery store alone, buying 'grown up' things such as orange juice, milk, bread, toilet paper and laundry detergent. He is also reading a tabloid and discussing the quality of microwave dinners just as an adult does. When the cashier scans the toy soldiers she looks at him questioningly. Kevin makes a joke saying they are 'for the kids' referring to his own children. Obviously he doesn't have children, but his purchases and actions make him seem grown up."

WTF?  Did someone really feel the need to explain to the internet that 8 year-old Kevin McAllister didn't have kids?  Did this person feel like they were doing the internet a service?  Here's more internet nerd dickery:

"On the phone with the French operator, Frank yells 'I am looking for my son! Do you know where he is?' However, Peter knows his son is at the house, he just cannot reach him."

Really?  This internet dick pulled out one totally innocuous-to-the-script "error" (Is Kevin's Dad omniscient?  He knows Kevin is still at home?) and goes on the internet to bitch about it?  Also, let's ignore the fact that this internet nerd felt the need to fire up his laptop to type out this little inaccuracy while at the same time misnaming the character in the quote...it was Kevin's Dad, Peter, on the phone with the French operator; Uncle Frank couldn't give two shits about Kevin and was busy angering his sister-in-law by passing out her shrimp cocktail.

Wait...did I just do the internet nerd thing?

One last one, from Home Alone 2: Lost in New York.  The family is going to Florida for the holidays and Kevin complains at the very beginning of the film that "There are no Christmas trees in Florida."  This, of course, sets up Kevin's obsession with Christmas trees and allows his Mother to locate him at 30 Rockafeller Center at the end of the movie.  To any rational person, this line is called "foreshadowing".  To this nerd, it was something to complain about  (feel free to do so but don't bother reading the whole thing; emphasis mine):

"There actually are Christmas trees in South Florida. The Norfolk Island Pine is a tropical pine that is originally from Norfolk Island, east of Australia. It grows pretty much all over south Florida and has even been seen growing as far north as Tampa and even near Orlando, though it does much better farther south, especially from the latitude of the north shores of Lake Okechobee southward. Fully grown, it has a slightly narrower than normal pyramid shape with nearly fern like branches that grow in an evenly tiered pattern, and will generally make a very nice Christmas tree. Farther north, it is usually grown indoors as a potted plant. Usually, outside of the tropics, you will see this pine grown in most offices, especially next to a south facing window. However, Kevin, having never been to Florida, probably didn't know this and assumed there were no Christmas trees there."

Well, good thing you cleared that up, internet!

Sigh.  Sometimes, the internet makes me sad.

Happy Pearl Harbor Day! I've been laid off!

On Sunday morning, December 7th, 1941, the Japanese Navy launched an air assault on the U.S. naval base at Pearl Harbor, thrusting the United States headlong into a world war since made famous through the tireless efforts of Ben Affleck and Josh Hartnett. 

Veterans will say that the real heroes are the 405,399 Americans that died over the course of the war but we all know it was these dreamy fellows.

"Only" 2,402 Americans died in the attack that day but the damage had been done: for the next four and a half years, the United States would find itself in the lowest of lows before eventually climbing back up and achieving a bittersweet, ass kicking victory.  And it all started 70 years ago today. 

If you know a WWII vet, give him a hug.

In other news, I was given my 60 day notice last week, although--we've been informed--it might not take nearly that long for me to find my fat ass sitting on the couch every day.  We're really "working" day to day at this point.

A few years back, I found myself in an unadvance-able job at Steppenwolf Theatre Company.  I loved that job but they couldn't promote me any higher and I eventually grew frustrated and quit.  Now, lots of people have quit their jobs over the years but I was in the odd position of not having any real prospects when I did so.  I did not have a job lined up nor was I thinking of going back to school.  I just up and quit.

I wasn't at all nervous when I did so.  I gleefully drank my way through 3 awesome months of unemployment and then depressingly drank my way through 3 terrifying months of unemployment before landing my current position electronically jerking-off old dudes.  Being forced into unemployment during the worst recession since, what, the outbreak of World War II while I have a mortgage and a wife who can already do better than me?  Again, terrifying.  

When I left the 'Wolf, I considered just applying for a job at Borders for a while to take advantage of their discount or at Taco Bell for a few weeks since I thought that would be hilarious.  Borders is out now (damn you Amazon!) but I suppose Taco Bell is still on the table.  Although that won't really jive with how much weight I've gained.  What should I do in 2012?  Let's bring it to a vote:

What should Mike do in 2012 before the Mayans destroy the world?

1)  Get a job, deadbeat!
2)  Write a screenplay called "Evil Jesus" that has a tagline of "He'll convert you...straight to HELL!" (and a poster of Jesus, in sunglasses, aiming a .44 at the reader with a caption of "Nail this")
3)  Sit around and make Newt Gingrich jokes
4)  Develop a meth problem
5)  Develop a math skill
6)  Declare for the NBA Draft
7)  Launch my porn-star career under the name "Johnny Thursday"
8)  Gain 60 pounds
9)  Lose 20
10)  Work at Taco Bell.  Is it your destiny

Take the poll in the upper-right hand corner of the blog and let me know what you think.  I've even made it so you can select multiple answers.  Enjoy!

(seriously!  Go hug your WWII veteran!  You don't have much time left...)

Today in Sheer Internet Joy

Can a dessert give you an erection?

As it turns out...yes.

Allow me to back up a bit.  A few years ago, in looking for the perfect gift for a father who tends to fix his clothes with a glue-like product called "Shoo-Goo", I stumbled upon the Turducken.  The Turducken had gained a bit of fame over the years because John Madden--football announcer and spit collector--gave away turkey legs to players for a job well done during the annual Thanksgiving day football game (Bears/Packers/Vikings/Cowboys/Bucs/Saints/Raiders/Patriots/Steelers/Redskins/Chargers/Seahawks 45 - Lions 3).  The CBS production staff annually put together an avian-monstrosity called the "Turducken" that was a Frankenstein-type bird:  a turkey combined with a chicken combined with a duck.

A bird is not supposed to have this many legs

Turns out, the tradition goes back much, much further than John Madden:  “In his 1807 Almanach des Gourmands, gastronomist Grimod de La Reyniere presents his rôti sans pareil (‘roast without equal’)—a bustard stuffed with a turkey, a goose, a pheasant, a chicken, a duck, a guinea fowl, a teal, a woodcock, a partridge, a plover, a lapwing, a quail, a thrush, a lark, an ortolan bunting and a garden warbler—although he states that, since similar roasts were produced by ancient Romans, the rôti sans pareil was not entirely novel.  The final bird is very small but large enough to hold just an olive.”

Thanks Wikipedia!

Today, a few companies produce the Turducken around Thanksgiving, although it's not nearly as fancy-schmancy as the one Grimod conjured.  These days, the thing is pretty much just a de-boned chicken stuffed into a de-boned duck stuffed into a de-boned turkey, stuffed with a sausage and cornbread stuffing.  I say it like that in itself is not awesome. 

Needless to say, this gift was the highlight of my Dad's Christmas.  Other than spending time with his family, of course (just kidding!  The bird was totally the highlight).

Anyhoo, when writing my boring post about Thanksgiving 2011, I was going to include a picture and a history of the Turducken we devoured--the Turducken having now become a family tradition--but I was just too lazy to do so.  Can you blame me?  I still had a crap-load of Turducken in me.  But in researching the Turducken, I came across a dessert so awesome, so ungodly...I...I just don't have the words.  

Seriously, check this out.  I present to you, my brave readership of nine, with the "Turducken of Desserts"...the "Cherpumple":

 

So...horny... 

Dear god.  That thing is amazing.  It's a cherry pie baked into a frosted, white cake, placed on top of an apple pie baked into a yellow cake, atop a pumpkin pie baked into a spice cake.  Click on the picture for a larger, more fantastical image.  

Creator Charles Phoenix says, "It both intrigues and horrifies people." 

Lisa, my work neighbor and resident badass chef (I want her to write a cookbook called "EAT THIS!" that features a picture of her on the cover scowling in a chefs hat, holding a mixing bowl and giving the reader the finger), thinks she can make one of these.  She is, however, thinking that it should only be two layers.  Heresy!

I dunno.  I want one.  Although, to be fair, I'm pretty sure we all now have diabetes merely from looking at the picture. 

Blow up the Sox

Warning:  Only readers with a passion for the White Sox or baseball in general will give a flip about this post.  

Brad and I renewed our "Ozzie Plan" today; 14 trips down to Comiskey Park for the 2012 season.  Wo-hoo!  Now, I can't imagine the Sox will continue to call the package the "Ozzie Plan" seeing how its namesake, Ozzie Guillen, has been shown the door and now manages the Miami Marlins.  What matters is that Brad and I will be able to smell the grilled hotdogs and onions 14 times in the 2012 season, while we watch an underwhelming Sox effort on days John Danks doesn't pitch.

It will be interesting, however, to see what kind of team we'll be seeing on those trips.  You see, last year, the Sox badly, badly underachieved.  The 2011 Sox had the 5th highest payroll in the major leagues and finished with the 18th "best" record...or 13th worst record if you're a glass half-empty guy.  They started out the season poorly, made a run in the middle of the season that got me believing again and then knocked the legs out from under their fan base with a 0-42 September record (citation needed).  It was a bad season highlighted by our free agent acquisition, 6'6" 285 pound Adam Dunn who was supposed to smash 50 home runs on the South Side but instead got out-homered by all 185 pounds of Opie here:

Basically, we payed Mr. Dunn $12,000,000 to secure the lowest batting average in major league history by a guy with 500 or more plate appearances (.159) while striking out 177 times...against only 66 hits.  12 million dollars! 

Now, I don't think Adam Dunn is that bad.  The dude did hit 38 home runs in 2010.  I personally feel that he started out on a terrible streak and just couldn't shake out of it.  You don't go from a 38 home run campaign to the worst batting average in major league history in just one season, even if he did switch to the tougher league.  This has to be mental, more than anything else.  Hopefully, an off season of floating in swimming pools and sleeping on top of a pile of money with many beautiful ladies will help wipe his memory of his utterly terrible year. 

But it wasn't all Adam Dunn's fault.  3 other regulars struggled to hit above the Mendoza Line, Ozzie's temper, contract situation and feud with Kenny Williams was a constant distraction, our pitching was mediocre at best and we had zero help from the minor leagues early on.

It is that last point that causes me to think it's time to blow up the team.

Next year, we are slated to again have a payroll in the upper-third of the league, only it's becoming abundantly clear that we are going to lose our most consistent pitcher to free agency this off-season.  In addition, we've already been informed that our payroll is maxed-out; fans shouldn't hold their breath for any game-changing free agents.

The long-term problem?  Our minor league system is completely barren.  I'm not sure if it is Kenny Williams' lack of creativity when it comes to the draft or Jerry Reinsdorf's constant draft-time penny pinching--or both--but the Sox, for whatever reason, refuse to invest in the draft.  As such, the truly talented kids fall to teams that are willing to spend money on signing bonuses and we draft "signable" kids over and over and over and over again.

While the new collective bargaining agreement will help the Sox going forward, the immediate damage has been done.  As a result of their penny-pinching(and Kenny Williams penchant for trading minor league talent for Major League players), the Sox have been left with what Baseball America calls the 4th worst minor league system in Major League Baseball.   Keith Law, the ESPN amateur scout and catty humorist, thinks the Sox are the 3rd worst.  Ouch. 

While it is always possible that the cheaper teams can find a hidden gem here and there, most teams that are willing to spend on the draft continue to churn out major league players that are 100% homegrown.  The Boston Red Sox excel at this, god damn it.  Even with larger signing bonuses, this is the single cheapest way to get high-end talent into an organization.

The Sox are in a tough spot.  They will have a fairly high payroll next year but do not have any realistic chance to win a World Series unless we have some serious rebound seasons from our highly paid "talent".  Combine that with the likely-loss of our beloved lefty Mark Buehrle...

Don't you just want to hug him?

...and that leads me to believe we won't be hoisting the Commissioner's Trophy next October. 

So what's team to do?  I think it's time to dismantle the Sox.  Trade any guy that has value to any taker and try to restock our minor league coffers.  Kenny Williams has said that he will only take back major league ready players but he's fooling himself; once we start trading our guys, we should not stop.  He wants to trade his guys but remain competitive.  In other words, he wants to have his cake and eat it too.

My plan is different:  get rid of everyone.  Gavin Floyd, John Danks, Phil Humber, Matt Thorton, Sergio Santos, Jessie Crain, A.J. (if he'll accept a trade), Carlos Quentin, everybody.  See if you can get 30 cents on the dollar for Dunn and Alex Rios...and if we can't get rid of these guys--and let's be honest here, we probably can't--just let them play out their contracts and by the time they are done, the new acquisitions will likely be ready.  Let the kids play.  Pitch Chris Sale and Zach Stewart.  Turn Dayan Viciedo loose in right and see if he doesn't embarrass himself.  Let Tyler Flowers catch all season.

Let's see what the kids can do while we simultaneously add some talent in the minor leagues. 

Today Brad and I spent $400 on Sox tickets for the 2012 season.  I would much rather watch a team that I can see some hope in the future than a team that I want to bury as dead from the very start.

Thanksgiving 2011

I LOVE Thanksgiving.  It is--by every calculation--my favorite holiday of the year.  Sure, I'm filled with childish glee come Christmas...who isn't?  Except for our friends of other faiths, of course.  Also, as discussed previously on this blog, Halloween is a truly special time to go barhopping.  And while it is not a government sanctioned holiday, the NBA draft absolutely should be, in my humble opinion.

However, none of these holidays holds a special place in my heart quite like Thanksgiving.  Why do I love Thanksgiving?  Because it is all about food.  No presents, no pressure; just eating and drinking.  And napping.  And football.  And family.

This Thanksgiving was a little bittersweet as it was the first major holiday without our beloved mother and her wonderful stuffing.  To lessen the pressure of the occasion, we all chipped in this year and it became sort of a Thanksgiving Potluck:  Dad made a Turducken, his famous gravy and the mashed potatoes, my brothers-in-law chipped in with stuffing and green bean casserole, Peggy made a spot-on Red Velvet Cake from my Mother's recipe, I brought the pies and Krishni made a truly bad-for-you batch of southern-style dinner rolls.

Of course, we all brought champagne. 

And god did we eat.  Over the 36 hours I was at my Father's house, I had probably 5 slices of pie and 2 slices of cake, two full meals of stuffing and gravy and, for ceremonial purposes and nothing more, a chunk of turkey. Clearly, I'm carb conscious. 

We also celebrated my adorable Godson's 2nd birthday with remote controlled cars and trucks, played with a bunch of toys at Toys R' Us, watched a ton of (bad) football, buried the kids in leaves in the unraked back-yard, saw the new Muppet movie--it was awesome--and drank a considerable amount of wine.

Considering this was the first major holiday without Mom, I consider it a smashing success.

Now, about the extra 10 pounds I am carrying around after the weekend...

Things I don't hate

I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time bitching about the things I hate.  Like mayonnaise and Julia Roberts.  It's sort of who I am.  But today on the bus--where I overheard two dudes loudly going on and on and on about how much they hate Justin Bieber--I realized that that can be exhausting.  Who can hate Justin Bieber so much that they must angrily bitch and moan at 7:13 AM on a Friday when everyone else is patiently counting down the minutes until 5pm? 

As such, in celebration of it being Friday, I thought I would make a list of things that my stunningly sexy readership of 9 may think that I hate, but in actuality, don't bother me in the least:

1)  Bieber

Might as well start here.  I can't name or hum a single song by this kid.  I have no idea if he sucks musically or not.  All I'm going on here is what I hear people complaining about the guy.  Ok, so he has kind of douchey hair.  I'll give you that.  And he has more money than god.  But hell, he's just a kid that was thrust into a spectacularly successfully money making machine.

Can we blame him for that?  He's sort of like the next generation's version of Macaulay Culkin.  Sure, we may all remember Mac fondly now, but that's revisionist history.  There was a swift and brutal backlash against Macaulay Culkin back in the day that abruptly pushed him into an early retirement.  It's very easy to forget how much people hated that kid for a while.  So, Mac relaxed for a couple years, divorced his parents, slept with Michael Jackson, got married, got divorced, laid low and then eventually came back as an indie-movie darling and I think we can all agree, he's sort of awesome now:

God, I hope that picture isn't photoshopped

Point is, yes, Bieber is over-exposed and has that hair but it wouldn't surprise me if he either went the Mac route or the Timberlake route and remade his career on down the road.  I hated Justin Timberlake for a while...c'mon, the dude was in 'NSYNCH (did I get that right? I refuse to google it) but through a series of SNL appearances, that fun Pepsi commercial where he was killed by a big screen TV, "Tit-Gate" at the Superbowl, and some pretty good roles in the occasional movie, he's made my short list of dudes I'd probably have to set aside my heterosexuality and bang given the opportunity.  I can "not hate" Bieber and at the same time hope to god he never makes that list too, right?  I better move on.

2)  Rebecca Black

This is one that I don't get at all.  Sure, her song "Friday" was not very good.  Let's get that out of the way right now.  But is it the worst song every released?  Hell no.  I mean, the Black Eyed Peas shit out a worse song 8 or 9 times on their average album.  Bob Dylan recorded entire albums on auto-pilot that were worse than "Friday".  I can even think of a few Beatles songs that are worse: "Birthday", "The Long and Winding Road", "Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da" and "Michelle", just to name a few.  

I really don't understand what the spite and fury is all about.  What we have here is a 14 year old girl whose parents paid for a music video to be made of a song the girl didn't even write.  The lyrics speak about the average, every-day "problems" of a teenage girl, not about Nancy Pelosi and John Boehner having a dirty three-way with the Declaration of Independence.  Where is the controversy?  "Friday" is the definition of innocuous. 

And yet, because of this song, the girl--a freaking teenage girl--received death threats.  What?  Why?  I don't get it.  I hope she makes a shitload of money, does Bieber and writes a hilarious book someday.  The ridicule she received was not at all equal to the annoying qualities of the song. 


3)  Mondays

For just about forever, Sunday has been my favorite day of the week.  See, on Friday and Saturday, we're supposed to act and behave as functional human beings.  We go out, have drinks, mix in a dinner, run errands, visit people and generally better ourselves.  Sunday?  I consider it a loss if I change my underwear.  Sundays are all about sitting on the couch, watching football and movies, playing Nintendo and not showering.  Sunday is the perfect bridge to Monday.

If you can't deal with a Monday, then you didn't do Sunday right.  

While I don't hate Mondays, I do think that these days they are rather sad and bittersweet.  One one hand, I have to drag my fat ass out of bed, take the bus-to-the-train-to-the-bus in 40 degree weather all to help grown men masturbate.  On the other hand, I won't have to worry about that commute much longer.

Sigh.

4)  Jesus Christ

Despite what you may believe after a few of my posts these last few days, I gots nothing against the King of Kings.  Honestly?  Jesus seemed like a cool dude.  While I may not believe that he was the son of God, I do think he was a prophet of sorts and pushed a message of love that people these days really, really seem to ignore.  It's hardly his fault that millions of people have been killed in his name.  And if he's watching us today, he's probably cursing Republicans right now, saying things like "WTF?  I never said word-fucking-one about gays." or "Help the poor!  Help them!  Remember?  Love!?  I healed lepers!  You can't help a cancer-ridden single mother of 3 with her hospital bills!  Christ!"

What did Gandhi say?  "I like your Christ.  I do not like your Christians."  That seems about right.

************

Thus concludes the only blog you will likely ever read where JC, Beiber and Rebecca Black have something in common.  Happy Friday!

I just hope he didn't call during dinner

Jesus Starfish

Warning: You will never, ever be able to un-see the following image

I've never been one for scatological humor.  It's just not to my, uh, tastes.  For me, fart jokes stopped being funny in about the 8th grade.  I find that because of this, I am unlike most dudes.  To the average guy, farting is one of the joys of being a man.  Entire symphonies have been tooted in rooms full of dudes on New Years Day after several bowls of chili during the Rose Bowl. 

Bathroom humor just isn't my thing anymore.  It's part of the reason why I stopped watching Family Guy.

Pictured:  Humor

However, sometimes something so spectacular within this genre comes along--something so wonderful, sent down as a gift from God--that we just have to share it with the world.  Something like, oh, I don't know...Jesus appearing on a dog's butthole:

Praise the lord!

I know, I know.  Gross, right?  But isn't that an amazing likeness?  I have to admit, it kills me when people see Jesus or Mary or God in or on an inanimate object.  Remember that guy that found a Cheeto that vaguely resembled Jesus on the cross?:

Or the dude that found the Cheeto of Jesus praying?:

 

Or the woman who found the Cheeto of baby Jesus?:

Or the person who thankfully didn't eat the Cheeto of Mary holding baby Jesus aloft?:

Clearly, any bag of Cheetos could be blessed with a divine, delicious image.  However, Jesus and Mary don't exclusively appear in Cheetos brand snax.  My fellow Chicagoans might remember when the Virgin Mary allegedly appeared on the Kennedy Expressway's overpass at Fullerton Ave.  Dubbed--hilariously, so--"Our Lady of Fullerton", people came from all over the country to pray beneath the blessed image; probably just before donating a dollar to the unwashed homeless guy playing the bucket on the other side of the street.

 

Now, I'm not here to make fun of someones faith.  Just because I don't necessarily share the same beliefs, I would never, ever question your belief in God.  I do think that all bets are off, however, when you willingly worship a water stain that honestly looks more like a Gelgamek vagina than anything else.  

What is amazing about the Canine Jesus Starfish is that, to my knowledge, this is Jesus' first appearance on a totally animate object...on a living, breathing organism.

Though if I was a Christian, I'd feel awfully conflicted about taking that dog for a walk.

Today in Sheer Internet Joy

As you might imagine, I participated in many drinking games in college.  We played all the traditional ones:  Asshole, Oblivious Pursuit, 99 Bust-a-Rhyme (known at other Universities as "Kings Cup"), Beer Pong, the Star Wars drinking game, Quarters, Circle of Death, etc.  When we didn't have any other options, sometimes we created the games; left with only a nickle, an empty cup and all the beer we can drink, Marc, Shannon and I created a game called "Pump Factory" that got us obscenely drunk one night at The Hut, the fast food joint at the student union run by an awesome chick named Carmen that really liked us...we purchased beer for 20 cents on the dollar for all 5.1 years I was in school. 

One night, about 5 of us had a ton of beer but nothing to do and we had a conversation about who--currently, historically or in fiction--we thought it would be awesome to have a beer with.  What started as a simple, philosophical discussion became a full, knock-down drag-out argument that had us rushing around our house looking for people to break ties on who you'd rather have a beer with: Bill Clinton or Freddy Krueger.  Since it was March when we were having this argument and college hoops had been on our TV for the last 72 hours, we set up a full, 64 person bracket, expanded our voting pool to about a dozen people and whittled it down for a final four.  The final four of the "People we'd most want to have many beers with" was:  William Wallace (we were obsessed with Braveheart at the time), Han Solo, Jesus Christ and Indiana Jones.  If memory serves--it at really doesn't--Han Solo won in a close final over Jesus Christ. 

I miss college.

Considering we had a fraternity house full of engineering students who could create a bong out of just about anything, I'm shocked and disappointed that none of us ever came up with this AMAZING idea:

"You sunk my battleship and I seem to have pissed my pants."

Hell with Rabbit Ears

I'll bet most of you think life working for the Rabbit looks an awful lot like this:

"May we get you a Rob Roy for that spreadsheet?"

When in reality, the sad, soul-crushing face of my job looks like this:

"But Mike," you might say, "What happened between today and that hilarious Halloween party two weeks ago where your department cleverly celebrated your impending lay-offs by having an Irish wake for the staff around your work stations complete with a coffin, whiskey and girls that were painted to look like they were wearing lingerie but were, in fact, wearing nothing but panties that look like they really, really hurt?"

Well, I'll tell you what happened.  As many of you know,  Playboy is going through a bit of a change.  By "a bit of a change", I mean "closing the Chicago office that has been the headquarters of the company since 1953".  Everyone here is either losing their job--likely within the next 6 months--or being moved out to California to work at Playboy West.  Our department will be lucky to survive through Christmas.  It kind of sucks around here.

The entirety of the online Playboy footprint was purchased by a Canadian porn company who has also snapped up a bunch of other naked lady sites.  However, since they work with an entirely different billing system then we do, over the course of the last few days we've been attempting to integrate our system into theirs.  This has caused many, many login problems.  Serious login problems.

What kind of problems?  Well, apparently the entire world is completely unable to masturbate.  This sucks for us for a number of reasons.  1)  Electronically jerking people off is what we do.  2)  Many of our subscribers are super old and hard of hearing and don't know how to use a computer to begin with.  3)  Many of the subscribers affected are foreign since this integration also messed with the billing system exclusively used by our international subscribers. 

This means our frustrated subscriber base--who just want to relax before the wife gets home from work, goddamn it--are calling in with their pants at their ankles and giving us what-for, often with a tremendous language barrier.

Sigh.

Thank god I have the best wife in the world.  And that bottle of Jim Beam in my freezer.

I'm old, Part 2

Back on January 30th, 2008, I posted an entry at my totally inappropriate MySpace blog entitled, "I'm Old".  Within, it had the following passage:

"It all started at work.  My back had been feeling a little out of sorts for the better part of the day.  Lower back pain is never pleasant, I would imagine, but I had never really experienced it before.  The spasms started small and only happened when I stood up from my desk area.  Any time I turned or, uh, moved, a tiny little pain would shoot through my spine and hammer my brain.  Ouch.  But it was manageable.  

I left work, made my way to the train and started thinking about the delicious, delicious burrito I was going to buy across the street from my bus stop. I knew something was wrong when I ordered something like 'a chorizo burrito with no sour-GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA !'  It snuck up on me and attacked with such vengeance that I didn't know what the hell had happened. It felt like to opposite of an orgasm.  I stammered through my order and immediately went next door to the liquor store and bought a bottle of vodka."

The rest of the post goes on to describe how useless I was for the next 48 hours.  It was the most pain I had ever randomly encountered, and this comes from a guy who just had his neck assaulted by a crazy homeless dude.  

Anyhow, I figured that the source of my back pain was from a weird chair I had been using at work.  They had just moved us from one end of the office to the other and in the move, they had lost my desk chair.  The new one was super uncomfortable and over the course of the next few weeks, I experienced some back soreness that eventually erupted into the fateful burrito order above.   I switched chairs shortly thereafter and, like magic, my back pain slowly went away.  I haven't experienced anything like that godawful week since.  

Cut to this past week.  It happened again but this time, there is no "office chair" explanation for my spasms.  I can only come to one conclusion:

I am--for realz, this time--really god damned old.

You see, normally when folks throw out their back, it's because of a lingering issue from long ago--my dad's back pain can be traced to when he played football in college--or otherwise they were doing something moderately active: whether it be playing with their kids, or falling off a ladder or making a sudden, jerky movement to prevent someone or something from falling.   All of these are fantastic excuses for back pain.  You know what I did to cause my back pain?  

I sat down on my bed to put on my socks.  

Ask Krishni about it sometime.  She was laying on the bed when I sat down and immediately shot directly up screaming something like "JESUSF'INGGAAAAAAOWOWOWOWOWCHRIST!"  I begged her to move over--likely not in a polite fashion--so I could lie down and whimper and swear and pretty much not move.   It was terrible.  And I have no idea what I did to cause the back gods to be angry with me.

Now, it's been well documented that I don't exercise enough.  And I eat a lot.  And probably drink more than I should.  And I just turned 33.  My sudden and fierce back attack was probably a direct result of all of the above.   Or maybe it's because I've already peaked as a human being--sad as it is to say, since I help grown men masturbate for a living--and it's all downhill from here.  

Christ.  Krishni married an old man.  Here's photographic proof:

Hooray for old man pants!

Blog headers...harder than it looks

Like any sane person whose adolescence occurred in the '90s, I watched an awful lot of The Simpsons growing up.  Because of this, I am not-so-uniquely qualified to definitively say that the "Clown College" episode was their finest moment. 

Also known as "The University of Michigan"

Of course, even the casual fan can pick out the two running jokes during the intro: Bart forever writing on the blackboard:

And the "Couch Gag":

I've seen most of these gags--at least from the first 8 or so seasons--thanks to the magic of the VHS tape that allowed a poor college kid to record the 14 daily showing of the Simpsons on Fox to be rewatched later, over many, many beers.

In the 2000's, Fox and Matt Groening--the creator of the Simpson clan--upped the ante by annually releasing The Simpson's DVDs.  I only bought the 1st season before realizing that I could never afford each season as it came out so I just borrowed each season as it was released from my buddy Brad.  It is because of these DVDs that I was introduced to the magic of the "director's commentary".  I LOVE the directors commentary (DC).  For those not in the know, the DC is an alternate audio track that plays along with the movie that features--duh--the director as well as the producer, some of the principle actors, maybe the cinematographer or the writer and they all sort of talk over the movie with interesting trivia facts and such.   I've watched most of my favorite movies with the DC turned on (Braveheart was weird because instead of the commentary being provided by any of the folks above, it was provided by Mel Gibson and Mel Gibson alone.  177 minutes of Mel Gibson rambling on and on by himself in what I imagine to be a candle-lit room full of Nazi propaganda posters.  Probably naked.) as well as the entirety of the 1st 8 seasons of The Simpsons.

Remember, I was unemployed for 6 months in 2006.

Of course, each Simpsons episode kicks off with the above two jokes.  The goal was to have two unique jokes for each episode and, for the most part, that has been the case.  You do tend to see repeats of the couch gags more often than repeats of Bart at the blackboard but they do happen.  What Groening discovered, according to the commentary, is that it is damn hard to write these two jokes week after week and keep them fresh and funny.  Even with a team of writers.  In fact, he joked--I think he was joking--that he often pushed the blackboard gag off on The Simpsons unpaid interns.

For the 5 of you that have followed my blog from the beginning, you may recall that I used to have a little witticism that appeared beneath the title of my blog that changed all the time.  The line was--for the most part--about Bonzer T and it at first changed daily, then every couple of days, then weekly, then my Mom died, then, after the last one sat there for a couple of weeks, I just pulled the joke altogether.  That's not to say that the gag will not come back...it's just really, really hard to do.

At first I thought "How difficult can it be?  Just pick a historical figure, make the person say something that he or she would never say and always make it about how awesome/offensive/manly you are.  You're super awesome and offensive and manly!  Piece of cake!"

Let me tell you, that shit is hard.  What I've found is that some days I'm not at all creative, or pissed at a masturbator that just called into work, or super hungry, or sometimes I'm sad, or disproportionally horny, or just plain tired.  Those are the days that you have to force yourself to stay clever.  It's one thing to be paid to do so and it's another thing to keep clever on a totally rad PG-13 blog in my spare time.

That said, what follows are each and every blog header that I kept for the 1st couple of months of the Home Skillet.  I think we can all agree, the work suffered as time went on:

“A safe place to bash Julia Roberts”  --Winston Churchill

“The window dressing of the Gods.”  --Jesus Christ

"Super cute!" --Madeleine Albright

"Thrusting towards mediocrity." --Millard Fillmore

“Jettisoning the philanthropic and crusty.”  --Brian of Nazareth

"Seriously, Julia Roberts sucks." --Marie Curie

"Sucking the shrimp out of life, one tail at a time." --Col. Sanders

"Eternally rolling with the homies."  --Peter Tork

“Arrrg!  ‘Tis only one rum better than mine!”  --Captain Morgan

“How'd the play end?” --Abraham Lincoln

“DAMN!  You lookin' gooooooood, sugar!”  --Bill Donohue

“On the 3rd day, Bonzer did rise again”  --God

“Oh shit”  Osama Bin Laden

“Dead on balls accurate” --LL Cool J

“Christ, this guy rambles”  --Jesus Christ

“Well, he's no Shatner”  --Bender Rodriguez

“Sniff, sniff”  --Barrack Obama

“Tougher than a pommel horse on fire.”  --Curt Thomas

“Sad Panda.” --Norman Schwarzkopf

“I dunno, dude. You're the shit.” --Yahweh

Honestly, I don't know how that "Red Meat" guy does it.  

Halloween 2012 (and beyond!)

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays.  Oddly, I was never that big on candy when I was little but I did always like to host Halloween parties and dress up in fancy clothing.  Maybe I was gay.

Or maybe I just liked to have Halloween swimming parties at my Godparent's house.  Don and Janice had a butt-kicking indoor pool and lived in a fairly well-off section of the west suburbs.  As such, my friends and I could roam the streets of Glen Ellyn scoring free chocolate and return back to the house to consume many, many Little Caesar's "Pizza Pizza" combos and try to drown each other in a pool that was always heated just a bit hotter than it needed to be.  Then we'd eat the shit out of our big bags of candy and, I guess, throw up somewhere.

As Don was a World War II veteran, I often dressed up on Halloween as an "Army Guy".  One year, Don found an actual (hollowed out, of course) WWII-era grenade at an army surplus store and bought it for my inevitable costume.  I gleefully attached it to my army guy belt and I can still remember that the pineapple part of the grenade kept unscrewing as my fellow candy hunters and I dashed around Don's neighborhood.  I was sad, upon returning to the McCarron homestead, to find that the only part of the grenade that was still clipped to my belt was the pin and trigger mechanism...which meant that some unsuspecting neighbor went outside the next day for the morning newspaper and probably freaked the hell out and called a bomb squad, all because Don thought it would be cool to get me an actual god-damned grenade to add that special touch of realism to my army get-up.  Good times.

Over the years, Halloween went from an innocent exorcise in calorie consumption to the more adult themed Halloween my generation has grown accustomed to.  Girls pour themselves into sexy outfits and seem to be in some sort of erotic competition to see who could show the most cleavage without ending up hand-cuffed in the back of a squad car for indecent exposure.  It really is "Straight Pride Day" and I welcomed this transition with open arms and groping hands.  In my years leading up to meeting my gloriously gorgeous wife, Halloween was my favorite bar night of the year, if only for the eye candy.  Really, if a single dude can't hook up on Halloween, it's because he's already passed out due to the Jagermeister shots the chesty bartender/French Maid was feeding him all night. 

Now that I am married, I've come full circle on Halloween.  While I still fully respect a woman's right to turn me on, I don't feel the need to go out every Halloween and try to make out with a girl that won't be slutty again until next October 31st.  Krishni appreciates this.  I can't imagine Krishni and I will do much tonight--other than pass out some candy in my hood--but that's ok.  We spent Saturday night having some wine at home and watching "American Horror Story".  That was spooky enough.  And then yesterday we made our way out to "Boo!  At the Zoo!" to spend some time with my nieces and nephews and sisters and brothers-in-law at the Brookfield Zoo.  Krishni and I dressed up as Pirates (typically, we like to be a bit more clever in our costumes but we're poor and we wanted to be something the kids could recognize...that eliminated anything "ironic" or "slutty" from our cache of costume ideas) and the kids were dressed as the Devil, Jango Fett, a princess and the worlds cutest Yoda:

This may be a bit sentimental but I had more fun playing with the kids in our costumes yesterday than I probably had at any bar or party during my drunken Halloween days.  Except for maybe that one Devo party at the Sigma Nu house, like, 12 years ago.  Ho-boy.  That was a good time.  Christ, that night...

I'm sorry.  I lost my train of thought there.  Anyhow, I'm looking forward to "Mike Jacklich Halloween Incarnation III".  Krishni and I will pass out candy to kids, play with my nieces and nephews dressed as Starwars guys and, of course, we'll dress up ourselves.  Never fear; I won't go totally boring on  you.  I'm sure I'll find myself at a party or bar at some point on Hallows-Eve-future and if Krishni and I ever have a kid--god forbid--I imagine I will have a little fun with that, too. 

I may be sentimental, after all, but I'm still an asshole.

Looking for that special touch of subtle crazy in your Halloween costume this year?

Sure, you could go as this guy:

Meh.  It's been done.

Or this guy:

Woah!  Too soon!

Or you could do this to your dog:

Nothing subtle here.  If you do this to your pet, you are one drooling, batshit crazy mofo.

Or you could be this guy:

I take it back.  This is awesome.

No, if you really want to say, "I'm totally crazy but it will take you juuuuuuuuuust a moment to figure out why", all you need to do is pay $75.00 for this:

And while you're at it, buy the matching thong!