Wednesday, January 18, 2012

OH MY GOD THAT HAMSTER IS FREAKING ME OUT

There is one thing and one thing only that you need to know about me:  I think it's fantastic when cats lose their dignity.  The cat is such a regal, dignified animal, revered in Egypt and worshiped in Google searches.  There is a reason that the lion is the king of the jungle despite, you know, no lions in the world actually living in a jungle.  The internet is flooded with cute cat photos and videos but my particular interest is in cats falling off things, cats ending up in a precarious situations, cats being baffled by laser pointers, etc.  That shit just kills me. 

And yes, sometimes that comedy can turn a little dark:

For best results, maximize the video

On a far lighter note, the Emerald Nuts "Keyboard Cat" commercial?  Just wonderful:


Not convinced?  Cats losing their dignity is what made Toonces the Driving cat so hilarious back before the YouTube was a twinkle in Al Gore's crotch:


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

Now, right now you may be saying, "Mike, I LOVE cats too!  But probably not in the same way you do.  Tell me: how crazy is too crazy when it comes to loving my cats?"

I'm glad you asked.  There is nothing wrong with having several cats in your apartment, even if you're a single lady or--god forbid--a dude.  However, when you start dressing up your pets, that's when it's time to reassess your life goals.  Sure, dressing up your cat can seem like a good way to spend your time...

Case in point

...but cats are dignified animals.  Why would you want to piss off your cat purely for my enjoyment?  The internet is filled with images of people who spent time--time they could have been spending with their kids, volunteering at shelters, stumping for gay marriage, etc--dressing up their cats, even if the cats are clearly terrified:



or downright pissed:



or just have just plain given up over what their owners have done to them:



 *************

You really, really have to figure that cats don't enjoy being manipulated to fill a void in their owners lives.  Sometimes, however, you find a cat being manipulated in the name of Jesus Christ and if you're anything like me, it will both creep you out and make you squeal in delight.   The following was shot before quality sound, special effects, decent music, a respectable singing voice, the American Humane Association, a captivated audience or an even average looking person was required to make a video.  Someone magical dug it up and placed it on one of my favorite websites, Christian Nightmares.  As stated in the title, that hamster is freaking me out.  Seriously, this video will haunt your dreams:


Sleep well!

Friday, January 13, 2012

Not to undermine Sheila's birthday or anything...

...but we just got the official word that Playboy's headquarters--located in downtown Chicago since the very first Bunny--will be closing on April 30th, 2012.  All retained employees will be moving to the west coast to open our brand new headquarters in Beverly Hills.  So, if you're a nubile girl with certain moral ambiguities and willing to take your clothes off for money, Chicago is no longer the place for you.

Pictured:  The former destination for nubile girls with certain moral ambiguities

This news, of course, does not affect me in the slightest as I already know I will be out of a job on January 30th.  But it is kind of sad.  Hef started the company in Chicago and--despite moving out to the mansion for 16-ways a long time ago--always wanted to keep the headquarters here. 

This must be a heartbreaking day for him.

Or not

Pour one out for Sheila

Today is what would have been my Mother's 70th birthday.  I'm going to celebrate this bittersweet event by going to a Civil War lecture with Brad and then returning home to pop the bottle of Perrier-Jouet* with Krishni in Sheila's honor. 

If you have a bottle of bubbly, pop the cork tonight, smile and tell a story about our classy lady.  If you have a fireplace and a copy of the Ned Devine soundtrack, all the better.  If you don't have a bottle of bubbly, for god sakes, go buy one.  You should always have a bottle of champagne on hand**.  

Sheila was a warm, smart, funny, compassionate woman who continues to be missed.  Happy birthday, Mom.  We all love you.



*Thanks Amber!
 **What's wrong with you?

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Vladimir Vorhees

I threw in a little factiod at the end of my last super-long (and utterly boring, if you don't like baseball) post: I've already named my future son.  To be fair, you might have missed it because not a lot of folks care about baseball like I do.  In case you did, I feel this is something folks need to know. 

If Krishni and I end up having a kid--that is kid singular, not kids plural--and the child turns out to be a boy, I'm going to name him "Vladimir Voorhees Jacklich".  Krishni does not like this idea but I don't really care.

Now, you might be saying, "Mike, that is clearly insane.  Why would you want to saddle your amazingly gorgeous son with a name like that?"  The answer is obvious:  With a name like Vladimir Voorhees, there's no way the child wouldn't turn out to be a super-villain that will one day rule the world with an iron fist.  And if I'm the super-villain's Father, you gotta figure there's going to be some pretty nice perks to go along with that job.

Like this, only with more lasers

"JESUS HOPPING CHRIST, Mike!  I...I, don't have the words.  But I'll try.  What if you have a girl?"

If I have a girl, 1) She will not be getting a tattoo until she graduates college or else she is paying for college and 2) I'm an equal opportunity guy.  I'm sure Vladimiria Voorhees Jacklich will be able to shatter the glass ceiling into super-villainy.  

When informing Krishni of this last night--I bring it up a lot--she again begged me not to name our child after a serial killer.  Sigh.  She's so short sighted!  If anything, Vladimir would be a mass murderer.  Geeze, Krishni.  Hey, to make a world domination omelet, you have to break a few million (L)eggs.

Nonetheless, she asked me that I at least throw up a poll to get my friend's opinions on the subject.  Feel free to take the poll over to the right.  Now, when you vote, keep in mind that it couldn't hurt to be good friends with the Father of the ruler of the universe.  Just throwin' that out there.  

Two words:  free beer.

Monday, January 9, 2012

Steroids and the Hall

Today, the Baseball Hall of Fame (HOF, herefter) announced the results of the Baseball Writers Association of America (BBWAA) voting for the 2012 election.  Just one player, 12 time All-Star Barry Larkin was elected with the required minimum of 75% of the votes.  Barry Larkin was an excellent baseball player and by all accounts, an excellent human being.


So congrats to him.  I couldn't be happier for the guy.

This was a pretty good group of potential inductees, depending on which side of the old-school/sabermetric divide you happen to fall on:  Jack Morris, Jeff Bagwell, Tim Raines, Lee Smith, Alan Trammell, Edgar Martinez, Fred McGriff, Larry Walker, Don Mattingly, Dale Murphy, Rafael Palmerio and Mark McGwire.


However, it's those last two names that is causing consternation in the voting.  You see, Mr. Palmerio and Mr. McGwire were steroid uses:  Mark McGwire admitted as much and Rafael Palmerio was actually busted by the new, tougher drug testing policy.   Both players--by numbers alone--should have been voted into the Hall on their first ballot (hopefuls can stay on the ballot for as many as 15 years as long as they make a minimum vote requirement); instead, McGwire received 19.5% of the vote while Palmerio received 12.6%.

Sadly, because of their steroid use, these players are not getting their just due in the voting.  It's even worse in the case of Jeff Bagwell; he has never been named in any report nor has anyone pointed a finger at him and his numbers don't show a tremendous spike from one year to the next.  There is absolutely no reason to think he used 'roids.  None of this matters one iota to the voters.  Bagwell had big muscles so he must have been a user!  I'm going to keep him out of the HOF because I can!  Whaaaaa!  Jeff Bagwell, leader of the 2005 Houston Astros team that were defeated by my beloved White Sox in the World Series, is getting black-balled from the HOF because he looked stout in a tank top. 

These tickets to the gun show ironically will force him to buy tickets the next time he wants to go to the Hall of Fame

Next year, the voting will really go to holy hell because Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Sammy Sosa, and Mike Piazza--all suspected users--will be joining Craig Biggio and Curt Schilling as first timers on the ballot. 

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

So what's the big deal?  Why can't these guys who deserve election get in?  Sadly, its the BBWAA.  Also, when you get down to it, the HOF themselves don't make it easy on the voters.  The voting criteria is amazingly vague:  "5. Voting: Voting shall be based upon the player's record, playing ability, integrity, sportsmanship, character, and contributions to the team(s) on which the player played."  That's it.  And it's the "integrity, sportsmanship, character" section that causes the voters to create their own definition of who is a Hall of Famer and who is not. 

You see, you have some of the older generation of voters who take the HOF voting as an opportunity to move forward their own personal agendas.  Like a really unimportant version of Congress.  They seem to think of themselves as the moral arbiters of baseball.  Let's ignore the fact that the guys from the 60's and 70's they so revere were hopped up on everything from cocaine to amphetamines.  Let's ignore the fact that rampant alcoholism has been a problem in baseball since before Babe Ruth was born.  And lets also ignore all the wife beaters and racists--many long dead--who's plaques grace the hallowed halls in Cooperstown, NY.

Let's ignore all of that and break this down even further:  The Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown is a museum.  On display in this museum is the history of baseball, warts and all, from the time when only whites were allowed to play, up to and beyond Jackie Robinson breaking the color barrier to the "golden age" of baseball and yes, the steroid era.  You can't just pretend that the years of 1993-2005 didn't happen (and lets not be naive here and pretend that the steroid era started in 1993 and is--ha!--over now). 

In other words, when you go to a history museum in Germany, it's not the "Museum of German history from 1 AD to 1938, 1945-present".  Perhaps that was a trite comparison.

Yes, the Baseball Hall of Fame is first and foremost a museum.  We should elect guys into the Hall based not on if they were faithful husbands or used drugs--which, incidentally, were not against the rules of Major League Baseball at any point before 2005--let's elect baseball players who were the best of their sport during the eras in which they played.

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

In 1998, Baseball was in trouble.  Fans hadn't shaken the bad feelings that remained after the 1994 strike cancelled the World Series.  Hell, I was still bitter because the White Sox were arguably the best team in the majors that year.  Attendence was lagging and many, many fans just upped and moved on the football, hoops or, you know, spending more time with their families.

Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa changed all that with a truly epic assault on Roger Maris' home run record of 61 which had stood unchallenged for 37 years.  Both eventually shattered the record, with McGwire finishing on top.  And that summer lit a fire under fans; basball was back and in a big way.  Ratings were up for every Cubs and Cardinals game and people found themselves caring again.   These two guys pretty much saved baseball as we know it.

They were also roided beyond recognition and you know what?  I don't remember people caring that much back in 1998.  Suddenly, when Barry Bonds broke the record a few years later--keeping in mind that Barry Bonds was surly and yes, black--did people start to question the size and speed of today's players.  Ignoring the blatant racism involved, people suddenly got on their moral high-horses and started to point fingers.  The Mitchell Report followed shortly thereafter and the names within the report started getting leaked to the press.  A full-blown witch hunt ensued.

Therein lies the problem.  Technically, the Mitchell Report remains sealed but many of the 89 names on that list have already been leaked.  So, how on earth can we vote for the Hall of Fame going forward?  We don't know who else is on that list.  What of the guys that were drug users and didn't make it into the report?  Sure, lots of hitters are suspected since power numbers went up so dramatically but what about the pitchers who were juiced too?  You never hear about those guys unless their name is "Clemens, Roger".  And what about the guys that experienced a leap in power numbers but did so through hard work, lifting weights and a keen batting eye (Bagwell)...how can we fairly judge those guys with an absence of evidence?

What happens if we elect a guy and then later find out he was a drug user?

You know what?  We can't fairly judge any of these players.  We can't pick and choose who goes to the Hall and who doesn't based on suspicions and hearsay.  The only option, really, is to vote on the best players of their era, regardless of names in reports, real or fictional.

Baseball fans are not stupid.  We get that Bonds and Sosa and McGwire used the juice.  In 2030 when I take my son to Cooperstown, I can tell him all about the era: how much fun it was at the time and the lengths baseball went to make sure that never happened again.  I will tell him about Babe Ruth who had the original home run record of 60 and the controversy Commissioner Ford Frick created when Roger Maris launched his assault on the record in 1961. 

You know what else I can do on that trip?  I can take my boy to the section that covers the 1998 McGwire/Sosa battle because while we may not be able to elect the men, they sure can make a buck off their jerseys and bats.

"Check this out, Vladimir Voorhees Jacklich.  This is what hypocrisy looks like."

Thursday, January 5, 2012

CTA

The morning commute can be hard on anyone.  I like to think of myself as a fairly laid-back guy when it comes to such things.  Seeing how I help grown men masturbate for a living, if I experience a delay in my public transportation, I simply shrug my shoulders and say loudly to the commuter next to me, "I guess that's just 5 fewer guys I won't be able to electronically stroke off today.  How sad."

Of course there can be frustrating days on the CTA, too...I once made the mistake of sitting next to this miserable old bitch who took offense at my winter coat infringing on her seat.  Instead of doing what any normal person would do ("Excuse me, but your coat is sneaking into my space.  Could you please move it?"  "Certainly!  I would hate to offend a polite commuter such as yourself!  Have a super-duper day!  But I won't let you go without a hug!"), she jammed her elbow into my side.  I assumed the assault was just a spasm or a mistake and ignored it.  To further get her point across, she proceeded to jam her elbow into my ribs three times in quick succession.  "Ow!  Why are you elbowing me!?," I asked.  "Your damn coat is in my seat!   It's 40 degrees out.  Why don't you zip it up like a damn normal person?"

I was dumbfounded and this was one of those rare times when I found myself at an actual loss of words.  If course I thought of all sorts of clever things to say to her later that day.   "I'm terribly sorry!  I thought I was on a Chicago Transit Authority bus and not in your first class stateroom!  How silly of me!" or "Oh, I didn't zip up my coat since, unlike you, I haven't yet felt to cold, clammy hand of death on my shoulder!"

But you know what?  Maybe I was in the wrong.  My coat is puffy and it was unzipped.  Maybe my coat really did annoy her.  I was willing to chalk it up as this woman having a bad day but a few mornings later, I found myself sitting across from her when the same situation played out with a new guy sitting next to her.  This time, he was a much smaller guy than me and his jacket was zipped up to his chin.  The same thing played out: she thought he was infringing on her space and instead of moving to another seat, proceeded to swing her arms about until she struck him several times.   He had a much better response than I did:  "I didn't know you needed three seats for your fat ass, you old bitch!"

Clearly, this woman is the worst commuter in the world.  Plus, she looked like a cross between Mac's Mom from "Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia":


and the Bitter Beer Face Guy:


I have never wished death upon anyone.  But I have to tell you:  Every time I see her at the bus stop now, a little part of me is disappointed she's still alive.

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

This morning I was in another world.  I took some NyQuil last night and it worked like a charm.  Knocked me out, stone cold.  However, the stuff was clearly still in my system this morning and I commuted like a zombie.  When my bus pulled up to the Foster and Sheridan intersection, I heard a woman screaming outside the bus.  It would seem that there was some construction on the east side of the intersection that day and as a result, my 147 bus and the following 144 bus could not pull past the intersection and stop end-to-end.  Because of this, the 144 pulled up parallel to my bus and stopped to let on passengers.  Apparently, the screaming woman didn't realize this was happening and as the bus pulled past and proceeded onto Lake Shore Drive without her, she ran at a full sprint after it screaming, "TELL THAT FUCKER TO STOP!!!"  Now, keep in mind that I was inside the bus when I heard her--crystal clear, by the way--as she screamed outside the bus...this woman was loud.  And mad.

Then, for whatever reason, she got onto my 147.  Since she was running back from her pursuit of the 144, she was the last person on.  The bus started to pull away from the stop as she walked to the back of the accordion-style bus, muttering profanities the entire way.  Instead of sitting down, she reached the back doors to the bus and started frantically pounding on the glass.  As she did so, she screeched "LET ME OFF THIS FUCKING BUS!  OFF!  OFF!  OFF!"

Let me tell you:  she was not happy with the way her morning commute was turning out.  The bus driver came to a tire-screeching halt, let her off and she exited muttering, spitting and bitching the whole way.  I last saw her as she was walking west on Foster Ave. 

I hope her day got better.  All I know is this:  I would have given my next paycheck to have seen that woman take a seat next to the old elbowing harpy from the story above.  I feel karma owes me a solid.

Sigh.  Maybe tomorrow.

Monday, January 2, 2012

Mike's Christmas 2011: "Score!"

Remember Christmas morning back in the day?  How it was always a competition with your brothers and sisters to see who had the biggest pile of gifts under the tree each year?  That was awesome.  Since I was the last of 5 kids, my pile was always the biggest...it's much easier to please a young child with a half-dozen smaller gifts than it is to please a snotty adolescent girl named Diana who always got whatever she damn well wanted from Mom.

Wait.  I digress.

Yes, back when I was wee, I was super easy to shop for.  I was usually happy if any of the following was printed on the gift I happened to be gleefully ripping open at the time:

"Playmobile"
"Nintendo"
"He-Man"
"Pillsbury"  
"Transformers"

I was a simple boy with simple needs.

Now that I'm all grown up, not a lot has changed.  I'm still a simple (semi) adult with (extremely) simple needs.  Even today, if I unwrap a gift that says "Nintendo", I'm going to be overjoyed.  Also, if you can incorporate fried cheese into a gift, I'm going to enjoy that too. 

The advent of the 2000's brought us Amazon.com which destroyed any and all mystery on what I wanted for Christmas.  If, for example, you're attempting to purchase a Christmas gift for me and you're trying to decide between a new sweater or theatre tickets, you can check my Amazon.com wishlist and find that the actual answer is "The John Rambo Complete Collectors Set".

"Buy me for Mike or the Oriental gets it."

The glory that is the Amazon.com wishlist is how I ended up with the worlds single greatest Christmas gift this year:  The 7 Color Fading Magic Showerhead.

Oh, HELL yeah. 

You see, I'm sure lots of people use their wishlists for things they need:  stuff for the baby, household items that don't quite fit the budget, etc.  Last I checked, I don't have a baby.  I do, however, want lots of stupid shit that I could not remotely justify spending money on.  I feel much better knowing that you are spending your hard earned money on my stupid shit. 

Back to the shower head.  Those of you that even remotely know me--or that attended the House of Klaaslich's super-awesome "Things that Light Up" birthday party--know that inanimate objects that sparkle, glow or blink are very important to me.  I'm a 12 year-old girl like that.  Now, each and every morning, I can wake up and take the warmest, greatest disco shower ever.

Once my wife gets out her tools and installs the damn thing, of course.