Doggie style

I didn’t grow up with many pets. Not because my family is not animal-loving, but more so because we are slovenly white trash and any animal that could not be contained in a cage or tank at all times would certainly be dead within hours of eating any sort of toys or food or other random substances that were laying about on our floors or furniture. So when I fell in love with and married a woman who not only grew up with and loved animals, but went to school to make a career out of helping sick and injured animals, it made me start to want a dog. Alas, our apartment complex did not allow dogs, but we daydreamed about someday owning our own home with a big back yard and a couple of dogs. I dreamed of owning a border collie or greyhound and naming it Strangelove. Going for walks. Playing in the park. Running around and enjoying the companionship from a four legged friend that I never had growing up.

Well, due to circumstances beyond my control, I have now lived with two dogs for the past 4 months. My Mother in-law’s dog and my Brother in-law’s dog. Both are mutts that were rescued from shelters - an act that I find highly commendable. After 120 or so days living with Scruffy P. and Ranger, I have come to a conclusion.

I am so fucking over dogs. I am sick of dogs. Dogs suck. I cannot do a Goddamned thing in this house with some stupid dog with his or her stupid dumb dog face looking up at me stupidly. They are trying to trip me while I am carrying drinks or food or knives. They are trying to eat my food. They are trying to eat my Daughter’s food out of her lap when she is in her high chair. They are trying to wake up my daughter while she is sleeping by barking at phantom predators at our door step. They are trying to drive me batty by whining and whining and whining and whining whenever I lock them up away from me because, aside from when they are sleeping in/stealing my spot on the couch, they are inevitably being compulsively fucking annoying or bad - i.e. knocking down my daughter in an attempt to go beg for someone’s french fries or eating my wife’s bowl of spaghetti and meatballs that she put down for 30 damned seconds. They are always looking up at me with this pathetic look on their faces that is all like “Please help me. I am an idiot and that dog food you bought for me is awful and I need to eat all of your gyros,” and I’m all like “Hey…asshat…piss off. You’re not getting a Goddamned bite of my gyros.”

Where the fuck do these dogs get off? Their DOGS. They are not entitled to anything of mine, yet they feel that everything of mine is theirs and nothing of theirs is good enough for them. All the while, if I stopped giving them their damned fresh food and water they would shrivel up and die. If I didn’t open up doors for these little pricks they would never get where they wanted to go (NOTE: Dogs always want to get to the other side of what ever door or obstacle they are behind). Do they care? Are they thankful? No. They just continue to annoy me and piss me off…like it is their only purpose in life. What God was to Job, dogs are to me. Testing me. Trying my patience.

I am not Job, though. I have caught myself flipping the dogs the middle finger on several occasions. Not sure what kind of indicator that is. I don’t really care, though. If the damn dogs weren’t so annoying, I wouldn’t have to flip them off.

In all honesty, when the dogs are being calm and not all up in my shit I enjoy playing and snuggling and all that good shit. I probably will get that dog of my own someday and I will just hope that if I train it, and make sure that it knows it is a dog and not a person, maybe I won’t have to flip the bird because, instead of being a total fart in my soupbowl, that dog will be my friend and companion.

Probably not, though.

Stephon Marbury & Michael Vick - Skipping stones together in the ninth circle of hell.

Taking excuse making to new, extraordinary levels, here is what New York Knicks guard Stephon Marbury had to say about the federal indictment and dogfighting charges that Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick recently pleaded guilty to.

“I think it’s tough. I think, you know, we don’t say anything about people who shoot deer or shoot other animals. You know, from what I hear, dogfighting is a sport. It’s just behind closed doors.

I think it’s tough that we build Michael Vick up and then we break him down. I think he is one of the superb athletes, and he’s a good human being. I think that he just fell into a bad situtation.”

So let’s examine this insane stupidity and breakdown how fundamentally flawed this sort of enabling logic is.

WE LIVE BELOW TAPDANCING ELEPHANTS

About 3 days after my wife and I reluctantly signed our third one year lease here at the lovely apartment that we have enjoyed living in for a couple years now, a family of pachyderms moved in above us. In that time, the ignorant hayseeds have turned their two bedroom living quarters into an official training ground for Ringling Brothers or perhaps the World Wrestling Federation (it will always be the WWF to me). In addition to the running, jumping, pounding and banging that has been waking our 6 month old daughter up from her sleep and naps, Joe Dirt and his assorted band of misfit morons, apparently unaware of a little thing called “gravity,” have seen fit to drop all sorts of miscellaneous debris from their balcony to ours. Now, I am not talking about the occasional bit of loose change…more like cigarettes ashes, butts and tobacco. Goobery, phlegm-filled spit. Wrappers. Garbage. Batteries. A nasty hoop earring. Shredded newspaper. Worst of all is the food and poop from the pet bunny that they are not allowed to have. All littering our otherwise placid and peaceful balcony - EVERY DAY.

The leader of this clan, a lanky white trash hillbilly whom I have overheard yelling “I’m so fucking sick of you” at his young kids, has two times approached us with insincere apologies and promises to address the excessive noise and littering problems, and nothing has changed. “I’m going to put a mat down on the balcony so stuff stops falling down on to yours.” A week later and I guess that enormous task has escaped his busy schedule of Coors consumption.

I have complicated feelings about Rachel Ray.

First and foremost, she annoys me perhaps more than any other person on television. I simply cannot tolerate more than a few minutes of her. I am all for people being happy, but she seriously needs to chill the fuck out, and she seriously needs to stop using those stupid fucking cutesy words like “delish, yummo and stoup.” Stoup is the most glaring offense, in my mind. She tells us that it is a dish thicker than a soup and thinner than a stew. Just fucking pick one. I have had 2 of her “stoups,” and…guess what…they’re just fucking soups. Neither is anything like a stew. STOP SAYING STOUP.

Also, quit trying to carry 100 things at a time. Your cabinets and not far from your counter at all. You can turn around and grab things as you need them. I get the whole shtick, you are in a hurry. You do everything fast because you are over-caffeinated and hyper. It’s not funny. It is dumb. It’s one thing to save yourself an extra trip from the car or from the basement to get supplies…you are 3 feet away. It’s dumb.

Her porno-like overreactions of when she tastes something she likes (no matter if she cooked it or not) also need to go. You cannot possibly like food that much.

What complicates all of this for me is that, although her television shows and radio commercials annoy me to no end, her recipes are actually not bad. We have made a few of her soups and the results have been tasty. I am not one of those people who thinks she is revolutionizing cooking. She is not a chef. I know that, and I don’t care. Not everyone needs a fancy degree to cook well…but goddamn I wish she were less annoying and perky…and less stupid and airheaded and flaky so I could actually like her or enjoy her show.

I just wish the Food Network would devote the time and resources they give to Rachel Ray to Mr. Alton Brown. Why can’t he have 5 or 6 programs on everyday?

Oh say can you see?

I have a grand total of zero magnetic ribbons on my car, which likely means I am not a good American. I am a sports fan though, and therefore I am exposed to numerous interpretations and renditions of our national anthem. Some good, most bad. I have come to a conclusion. It may sound mean, it may sound sexist, but I am sick of falsetto chicks and ball-less, whimpery R&B men singing the Star Spangled Banner at sporting events.

Growing up in Chicago’s suburbs and being a lifelong Cubs fan, when I think national anthem, I think of Wayne Messmer. Wayne is the public address announcer for the Cubs for 10 seasons and he sings the anthem (sometimes accompanied by his wife Kathy) before games that the Cubs have not contracted out to morons like Kelly Pickler or that hipster douchebag with the acoustic guitar they get once or twice every season. Messmer’s anthem is dramatic and powerful. His booming voice does not need amplification…well…actually, it does occasionally. Back in 1991, during the first Gulf War, Messmer sang at the NHL All Star Game at the old Chicago stadium.

I am far from the ravenous, flag-waving patriot. I do not particularly care for our national anthem (O Canada is far superior), and although I do wish our troops and veterans well, I am rather critical about the wars this country has engaged in during my lifetime…but the fact of the matter is…the above video is pretty amazing and even somewhat awe inspiring…and to me…that is what the anthem is supposed to do before a game. It is supposed to mean something and supposed to be energizing and and exciting for fans and players alike.

You need a deep voice to do that. A tenor or better. Think chest pounding…not glass shattering. Messmer does it, and a man named Patrick Blackwell does it even better. Blackwell is a bass-baritone with the Chicago Lyric Opera and sings the anthem at Blackhawks games. Unfortunately, the video I found of him doing the anthem does not do his amazing voice justice, and it cuts out at the most crucial part (he holds “brave” for about 30 minutes). Hopefully, though, it will at least convey to you the importance and effect of a big voice.

See what I mean? Even the anemic United Cetner crowd at a Blackhawks game can get into an anthem like that, and yet more and more often (and at bigger events, I might add), the quality of the singing of our national anthem is declining. More and more we are seeing young girls with high voices or marginally talented artists like Sheryl Crow or Billy Joel doing bad renditions of the anthem that make you sleepy before an event. Fuck that. I am sick of that.

As I mentioned, O Canada is a much better anthem than the Star Spangled Banner. It is short, sweet and at NHL games, the fans like to sing along, which is a pretty impressive and somewhat intimidating sight.

Things have not always been peachy when it comes to Canadian-U.S. Anthem relations, though. Classless fans in Montreal, San Jose, New York, Vancouver and other cities have booed the opposing country’s national anthem on occasion, which prompted Boston Bruins fans to step up and give a standing ovation during the singing of O Canada in October 2006, not long after Canadiens fans booed the crap out of the Star Spangled Banner.

The singing of the national anthems before the game is not the most important thing in the world, but I do think it is important enough to warrant some respect from the fans, and proper treatment from those who are in charge. I beg the promotions and public relations people throughout professional sports to leave the sopranos and the pianos and acoustic guitars and celebrity renditions for the minor leagues. Get yourself a big fat guy and do the anthem right.

There ought to be a law!

Can someone please explain to me why the pimple-ridden teenage cashier at Dominick’s cannot drag my bottle of whiskey across the scanner at the checkout? I understand that minors are not allowed to sell alcohol, but the cashier is not the one selling it to me. The store is. There is no reason I have ever been given that adequately explains the reason why my checkout process has to come to a screeching halt while we wait for the sixty-something cashier down a few lanes to put her whole line on hold, walk over, punch in some numbers, swipe the bottle, check my ID, punch in more numbers and then give the whole show back to the teenager. It doesn’s make a damn bit of sense. I am still giving the cash or payment to a minor…just because he or she did not scan the bottle makes a damn bit of difference? I think not.

There needs to be a goddamn reform in this stupid law, or some forward thinking store has to keep the fucking kids stocking shelves and pushing carts and let the goddamn adults run the checkouts. Everyone in line hates it when the cashier starts calling out “21!” I try to pick out cashiers that are of-age, but sometimes there is only 1 or 2 lines open and neither of them are old enough. It is dumb and needs to be rethought.

After all of this frustration, though, at least I was able to pick up a bottle of Woodford Reserve on mega clearance for $15.99. Frustration aside, it will be all worth it tonight when I crack that puppy open after work and put it on some ice.

Handshoes & Horsegrenades

Why is everyone playing bean bag toss instead of horseshoes? Bean bag toss is for 4th graders. Horseshoes is for men. Real men. Men who drink whiskey without sugary mixers or cola chasers. Everywhere I turn is some fratboy asshole with a can of Keystone Light, a backwards hat and a couple of pieces of painted plywood his dumbass shelled out about $150 for. If you want to play a clearly inferior and childish game, at least take the fuckin’ time to rip a couple pieces of 1/4″ plywood and spraypaint it yourself. Save yourself $100 and buy some decent beer. In bottles.

Some argue that the portability of the bean bag game makes it better, but I have trouble following that logic. Any decent horseshoe set comes in a pretty goddamn portable case…and even the old hand-me-down set you got from Aunt Marlene that doesn’t have a case will at least fit in a small duffel bag or backpack. All you need is 40 feet of grass or dirt…something that is not too hard to come by. Sure, you can set up a bean bag toss game on cement…but can you carry your big heavy bean bag creations a few blocks to a summertime bbq? I’d say not…probably better off with a pick up.

Furthermore, you need plenty of room to store your big wooden eyesores…or risk leaving them out in the elements where they will warp, crack, peel and be urinated on by wild animals. Horseshoe set? Easy cleanup and storage. Pack it up in the case and stick it in your garage or closet or keep it in the trunk of your car, where you can have impromptu games at impromptu gatherings.

Trust me. Horseshoes is the pinnacle of backyard games, rivaled only by bocce. Fix yourself a something on the rocks or grab a nice cold bottle of your favorite refreshing summer beer, grab an extension cord and throw something chill on your boombox (I suggest early 90’s hip hop or perhaps the WAR Anthology) and let the clanging begin.

Remember…stickers are worth a half point.

Ambition.

Our rent is going to go up again. This would be our third lease here, and while we love this apartment and the entire complex, I just do not want to dump over $1k a month into a property that we are not going to own someday. In my simple mind, if we can afford that much for rent, we can afford a little more than that much for mortgage. Whether it be a townhouse or regular house, I really would like to own a place that will be ours to maintain, decorate and sell as we please. We just had a kid and I think it would be beneficial to move while she is still young, so she can grow up in one home and stay in the same school district with her friends as she grows up. That may be an idealistic and even unrealistic hope, but I do not think it unfair to strive for some semblance of stability. I never had to move out of a school district after I started, and I would like to do the same for my daughter if possible.

Furthermore, I look forward to having my own place, for the typical reasons that most men look forward to having their own place. A garage, where I can store my golf clubs, spend free-time agonizing over the construction of H:O scale models for the war game and a place where I can brew my own beer. A basement where I can host card games, movie nights and viewings of major sporting events. A kitchen where I can cook elaborate meals and mix simple cocktails. A backyard with a deck where I can keep the gigantic Weber grill I hope to someday own that I can slow cook pork shoulders on. A fenced yard where I can let the dog I hope to someday own run around in, and a big fuckin hot tub in which I plan to get my respective drink and freak on.

So, in short, we have to try and find someone to give us exorbitant sums of money to purchase a home in a very short time. We currently have 1 income, absolutely no collateral and at least $25,000 in credit card, school and car loan debt.

Sounds like we are up against some long odds, knowing nothing about real estate and finance and not having a ton of money. The only thing I know is that I am willing to work my ass off to get where I want my family to be. My priorities used to be different, and I was content to work hard and blow it all on trips to Cedar Point or the Dells or the Dunes…but now I’ve got a wife and a kid and I want a house and a dog. Hopefully we can make it all happen without me having to get a second job, but if that’s what it takes, it is what I will do.

Here’s to hoping there is a house-warming in the not-so-distant future.

I am NOT a very important lawyer…

…but I think I can spot a baseless lawsuit when I see one.

Josh Hancock was a pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals. He died in a car crash on April 29th of this year.

Josh Hancock crashed his rented Ford Explorer into the back of a flatbed pickup that was on the side of the road helping out another vehicle. He was not wearing a seatbelt. He was doing 68 in a 55. He was talking on his cellphone and he had weed in the car with him.

Oh yeah…and he was drunk. Like…almost twice the legal limit drunk.

So, drunk guy (who may be high, too) is talking on the phone while speeding without his seatbelt on, crashes into A PARKED TRUCK and dies.

Now, as “administrator of his son’s estate,” Josh’s father Dean Hancock has decided to sue the restaurant that Hancock was at prior to his final ride, claiming the over-served him. The venue is owned by Cardinals broadcaster Mike Shannon and run by his daughter, who claims that they offered to get a cab for Mr. Hancock, who refused.

It doesn’t end there, though. In addition to suing the restaurant, the elder Hancock has also included in the lawsuit the towing company whose truck was hit, the driver of said tow truck, and (get this) the driver of the car who was stalled on the side of the road that necessitated said tow truck.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I think that a case can be made against the restaurant for over-serving. Hancock reportedly had a history of drinking and if the owners of the establishment knew that and still let him get behind the wheel, then I think there is at least grounds for a lawsuit, despite the fact that I still believe Hancock was in the wrong.

One even might be able to stretch out the negligence factor to the tow truck driver. Perhaps he did not have the proper lights or hazard signals that he is required to have on…I do not know how the law is worded regarding that, but maybe he did not give proper warning to his location on the dark highway, even though I still believe that if you crash into something parked, it is your own damn fault for not recognizing and avoiding it. IPDE. Identify, Predict, Decide, Execute. I learned that freshman year in driver’s ed.

But this poor bastard who was on the side of the road had skidded out to avoid an accident earlier. His car was either stalled or damaged to the point that he required the assistance of a tow truck, and is in no way related to or responsible for the fact that Hancock is dead. Now he is going to have to hire a lawyer and spend a lot of money defending his right to be stalled on the side of the road. It is just unfair, and I hope to God whomever has the power throws out the pending lawsuit against those who are clearly not in the wrong. The willingness for American people to try and sue everyone without discretion is a sad, sad thing.

Curious that the person Hancock was speaking with on the phone at the time of his accident is not named in the lawsuit, eh?

God Bless America.

Land of the cash grab.