Because I Succmb to Peer Pressure...

...and because you knew I couldn't resist finding something else to brag about.

		"Intellectually" Intelligent You're 'Intellectually Intelligent.' That pretty much means that you're good with theoretical ideas and concepts - but this comes to you naturally. More or less, you're a natural brainiac. Good for you. 40% theoretical intelligence 40% natural intelligence
		Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

All this and brains, too! Well, at least brains...

Wingin' It

This Sunday I had the distinct pleasure of heading out to Ren’s house to celebrate the greatest five-year old boy on the planet, Benner. Yeah, he rocks, and his party was super fun. But that is a tale for another time. I come to tell you about the wings. The Buffalo wings that I shared with Ren, JPal and The Big Man. And what story about food would be complete without the aftermath?

The wings were from some local place out by Ren, who lives just outside of Bumfuck. It’s friggin’ far. One day, I will ride my shiny new bike out there, and then I will shower, nap, and chase Benner around the yard, where we will both step in dog crap and have Ren clean us up. Ren and her hubby want me to be Benner’s Manny, and I don’t really have a problem with that, except for living way the fuck outside of this wonderful city of Chi-town.

But the wings could make me move. They were delicious and meaty, and the sauce was quite hot without being over-the-top and killing my tongue. And no acid reflux, which surprised me.

The wings weren’t the only things on fire. Apparently I was quite funny. But the night before, GringO and Wheels and other work buddies got me drunk and I hadn’t hit the sheets until 0500 on Sunday, so I don’t really remember anything that I said. But a Buffalo wing almost came out of JPal’s nose, so I take that as a pretty good indicator.

So, a little while ago, what I had been dreading finally happened. I passed the wings. And it was everything I imagined, and feared, it would be. As I write this, I am sitting on a bag of ice, listening to the cubes sizzle and crack against my naked browneye, which passed what I can honestly say felt like the Devil’s vomit over an hour ago. Pity me...

But it was so worth it. Thank you, Ren, for everything. Including this festering wound in my ass that is weeping battery acid.

-Zeepdoggie

Hot Wheels

I finally did it! I got myself a new bike! In silver, jut like Kevin Bacon in that bike movie that was so implausible that I noticed plot holes in it when I first saw it, and I was nine. But my God is the bike fast! From UIC to my place in 25 minutes! The lights were with me, and I had a good wind at my back, but still... My fastest time before that was 40 minutes. I am in love. What should I name her?

Oh, and if you need a bike, go to Kozy's. They have an awesome staff, and have some really good prices, especially now. You guys know I don't shill, so trust me when I say that this place is awesome.

Im going riding! Until I get back, no streets or sidewalks are safe from my rampaging speed.

-Zeepdoggie

Windy Nights

Here is an issue with sleeping by someone new. What do you do about farts? If you haven't gotten to that stage where you can freely pass wind in front of each other but you really need to let one rip, what do you do?

Do you get up and go to the bathroom and fart with the water on as a clever cover for your intentions? But what if they wake up as you get off the bed and decide to use the restroom after you? Then it will smell like poo-gas and you are the only culprit.

Maybe you could try to let it out silently? But what if you think it will be silent but in fact comes out sounding like Chewbacca getting raped, or it comes out smelling like vomited cabbage soup? How disgusting that would be if you were woken up by a warm breeze under the sheets and an odor likened to a corpse's belly button. Dammit, such decisions!

The other night I had gone to the Girly's for taco-fiesta night and then she came back to stay with me. I woke up in the wee hours of the next morning with some absolutely huge ones brewing in the brown-cloud factory. I didn't want to get up because I didn't want to wake her; plus I was also way too lazy to get out of bed. They, the farts, felt more windy than smelly so I decided to take a chance. I aimed away from her under the covers and grabbed both cheeks and spread them like parting the curtains on the worst possible peep show ever. I could have hovered golf balls with the force of air that whooshed out of me man. That combined with having no discernible smell made it quite good I must say, and the Girly remained in a peaceful slumber.

::GringO::

Granola Jesus Shakes

A friend brought up our co-worker D, and her amazing ability to work pretty much endlessly and tirelessly. I thought of this later.

Yes, D's energy levels are amazing. With anyone else I'd just write it off as a little tendency towards the anabolic steroids or cocaine. As it's D, it forces me to acknowledge the benefit of healthy eating and to ponder the restorative powers of Christ our Lord, D's diety of choice. Perhaps some top scientists from around the globe can figure out a way to extract these ingredients, and then sell a line of Jesus-flavored granola shakes. In a way, I'd be eating D, which I think I could live with. And yes, I know I am going to Hell.

::GringO::

Where's Freud when you need him? Probably snorting coke...

I keep having this dream. I just had it on Thursday night, so I am striking while the iron is hot here. I’ve been having it since I was little, before I was even interested in girls, which would make it since before I was ten, probably around five. One day I will share the story about how I was introduced to the congress between the sexes, but it’s about the dream right now, dammit!

Anyway, so this dream. I never remember it fully, just little snippets and images.
But I always wake up feeling safe and warm. But then I’m conscious and reality comes crashing in and I feel like shit.
I also would like to note that listening to people describe dreams can border on the brutally boring; for this I apologize. I just need to get this out there.

In the dream, I am scared, or I am lost. No one is around, or if there are people around, they are strangers. I am certainly not in grave danger, but I feel very uneasy.

A woman appears. I never remember exactly what she looks like, but she has dark hair and light eyes; blue or maybe green, but never brown, or any crazy kind of color. And she says something; it’s different every time and I can’t tell you what her voice sounds like, but it soothes me and makes me feel like being open. She smiles and things become okay. She sometimes holds my hand or hugs me, and I am pretty sure she’s kissed me, but no more than that. I usually wake up when we start walking somewhere.

Now I know I have a HUGE weakness for women with dark hair, and a MASSIVE weakness for ladies with dark hair and light colored eyes. I’m not entirely sure if it’s from this dream or not, but I’m willing to say it is. I haven’t ever gone more than a month without having this dream. In the past, if I was dating someone who had dark hair and light eyes, she would not replace whoever the girl was in the dream. Maybe they did, and I don’t remember it that way.

So, for the dream experts out there, is it odd to have the same dream for over 25 years? And can anyone help to decipher this dream? I’d really like to know what it means, if it means anything at all.

-Zeepdoggie

What a T's

I see a lot of t-shirts. Thanks to life working on Michigan Avenue and going to school at UIC see all kinds of slogan t-shirts. Most are just stupid, like, “STOP STARING AT MY SHIRT,” “STILL DRUNK,” or, “PLAYBOY TALENT SCOUT.” Some are quite clever, like “NEVER PICK A FIGHT WITH AN UGLY PERSON: THEY HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE.” Whether dumb or clever, I have decided that I have some really good ideas for t-shirts. Let me run some of them by you all, and tell me which ones you think I should get made up. Who knows, maybe some Neaderthalic frat boy may just be wearing an original Zeepdoggie, and you can try and explain irony to him.
Without further ado, here they are!

• Life is a journey, not a destination. Stop running.
• There’s no “I” in “team”…but there’s a “me.”
• GET TO WORK! Drug companies will give you all the happiness you can swallow!
• Freedom of choice is what you got: freedom from choice is what you want. (can’t go wrong w/Devo!)
• Hate is not entropic.
• The only question violence solves is how to get more of the same in return.
• Republicans love the poor, undereducated, overmedicated and hyper-religious; they’ll believe anything!
• When was the last time you really loved something?
• Nothing’s too good for Americans, so give 'em nothing! Vote Republican!
• Think of how different it would be if God chose goat tenders instead of shepherds.
• Free Noor and Sanjay! (Remember this?)
  

And my favorite:

• Your shirt is much more clever than you are.

Thank you! I’ll be back after I make my filthy lucre!

-Zeepdoggie

Unnecessary Force?

One day at work I witnessed a "COPS" moment. I was standing in the rotunda greeting, a job which consists of pasting a fake smile on my face for every customer who comes in and saying, "Good afternoon," or, "Welcome to our Crap Store," or telling them of a promotion currently happening in the store. I'm not the best suited for this job. My voice doesn't travel very well, I'm not very enthusiastic, and when customers ignore me intentionally I say rude things like, "I take it back, you're not welcome, get out of my store," or, "I hope you die in the middle of the street." In fact the managers have a list of greeters upstairs divided with he headings "good," "in a pinch," and "never." I'm in a pinch.

But on the plus side I get paid to stand there and watch women walk by for an hour. This is usually the best part but on this day attractive women came in second. I heard a loud bumping noise from the revolving door. Inside there was a homeless man and a cop, the latter's hand around the former's throat. They were stuck because their feet kept the door from rotating. The homeless man had a cigarette in his hand and looked fairly unconcerned even as he was being grabbed and mashed up against the interior glass wall by the officer. He took a drag, looked around for an ashtray apparently, and not finding one dropped it on the ground.

I couldn't hear what the cop was saying but he got the man to cooperate in making it from the door to inside the store. Once inside they were just standing, the homeless guy just hanging out like it was any other corner, the cop taking heaving breaths. At a move from the guy the cop grabbed him and threw him into one of the large windows in our storefront. IN a movie they would have smashed through onto the sidewalk, but in reality all the stores on Michigan Ave. have bullet-proof glass, so a homeless body means nothing.

The cop continued attempting to subdue the guy, but he kept fighting back. This incited the cop to punch the guy two or three times in the face and head. Shortly after another officer came in to help. They rolled him over on the bench and hand-cuffed him, pinning him down with knees on the spine and elbows on the back of the neck. After he was cuffed but still fought they dragged him down onto the ground face-down for more leverage.

A few moments later the man was standing up and escorted out of the store. I turned to my manager who was standing next to me, mouth agape and eyes wide, and half whispered half mouthed to him, "That was fucking AWESOME!" This gained me evil looks from a couple of customers but forget them, I haven't seen a fight that cool since Jr. High when a behemoth black girl beat the living crap out of a skinny black girl, citing "food" as the cause of the fight.

Not to be topped, my manager pointed out at the sidewalk where a large group of black people with kids were standing, I suppose having watched the whole thing. He said, "Do you think that's their dad?" I just started laughing like a madman while my manager asked, "Is that bad?" "Yes it is, but its also totally funny."

Good to know I'll have fun company in hell.

::GringO::

On falling, and learning my speed limits

I have a funny one. This is great, as it involves Asshole both hurting and embarrassing himself in one deft stroke, and me on speed. This was about four or five years ago.

Asshole and I had volunteered to help bubba Jimsnake and his parents move from OP to the neighborhood of Little Warsaw. Getting stuff out of their old apartment was pretty easy, so no stories there. The fun begins when Asshole and I get to the new place well ahead of Jimsnake and family. We decide to stop over at the local grocery store and get some refreshments, slake our thirst, that kind of thing.

We have to hop a fence to get there, since the fence has no gate to get to the parking spaces. Like I said, Little Warsaw. So I do my little hop over the fence; it can’t be more than three feet high. Asshole, a man who has never been what I would call full-body coordinated, has decided to mimic my casual fence-leap, but to do it one-handed.

He goes for the vault, gets his right foot stuck on the fence, and lands on the asphalt of the alley in a perfect ten faceplant. He hit the cement with the whole front of his body, at the same time. Asshole pancake.

Glorious and expansive was my joy at seeing the whole thing happen, as if in slow motion. Truly, it was a moment that we shared, and I will treasure it forever. Laffs!

So later on, after the move is mostly done and Asshole has left, it’s just me and Jimsnake doing the odds and ends of furniture arrangement. I am totally beat by this point, and yet Jimsnake, who is not quite in the cardio shape I was in at the time, is barely winded. He’s sweaty, but his energy level is way up. So I ask him what is getting him going at such a high pace. He tells me, “Xenadrine.” Now this is before all of those very special episodes of “7th Heaven” or “Will & Grace,” where someone OD’s on Xenadrine and there’s a lesson to be learned. So Jimsnake, a much bigger guy than me who has developed a bit of a tolerance to ephedrine, takes two, and so he thinks I should get two as well. The closest I had ever gotten to speed before this was Sudafed.

In thirty minutes, it hit me like a frying pan to the face. I couldn’t stop moving for five hours. I cleaned his folks’ new place and the old place. When he dropped me off, I cleaned my apartment, raked the leaves outside, made dinner, rearranged the bookshelves, scrubbed the walls, washed the windows, wrote letters to friends, called T-Mac out in CT. I did this in two hours. I could’ve also solved the world’s energy crisis for five minutes by hooking a huge hamster wheel up to a generator and taking a jog, but I was busy contemplating how the only way to communicate with the infinite universe was through music, so I didn’t get around to it.

Like I said, I got fucked up.

When the wifey got home, I had crashed. She found dinner in the oven, the apartment in an immaculate state of cleanliness, and me asleep on the living room floor, with an unfinished note at my hand that stated that dinner was ready and that Jimsnake gave me something to…

I’m pretty sure I just fell where I was laying, because I remember writing the note, but I don’t remember laying down, or much of anything else beyond finding a pen.

But for a moment there, I achieved total consciousness, which is nice.

-Zeepdoggie

An overreaction to the latest flying scare

The odds of dying from a heart attack are 1/400. Cancer killing you has a 1/600 chance. People still eat shitty foods and smoke cigarettes. If you took four flights a month and hijackers blew up a plane a week, the chances of you dying are 1/135,000. That’s if the 18,000 flights a day statistic stays constant, instead of increasing by the 8.2% growth rate that the flight industry has undergone since 1975. Facts and odds supplied by Google.

Have you heard about what you can’t bring on a flight anymore? Chap-Stick. Eye shadow. Water. Water? You can drink it if they serve it to you, but you can’t bring your own? I think once the airports see the marginal dip in profits from the vendors not selling $3 bottles of water that policy will change. Someone needs to give the security Nazis a chemistry lesson if they think that water is hazardous. Of course, 400,000 people die from drowning every year, so they might have a point. Maybe that’s what they’re doing; they’re saving you from drowning on your $3 bottle of water!

If you are flying from the US to England, the airlines won’t allow passengers to bring a book. Six hours on a plane, and you are forced to watch “The Shaggy Dog” or “Honey.” Continuously. You’ll watch one at least twice. In this country, we have laws against cruel and unusual punishment. And flouride in the water, but that's neither here nor there.

But hey, fuck literacy, right? Who wants to read books with all their facts and figures and research and entertainment? Let’s just rely on the media’s take on the world.

You can bring baby formula on board, but now that “the terrorists,” those guys and gals who “didn’t win,” know that, it’s only a matter of moments before they sneak the next explosive onto the plane in a baby bottle. At least, according to the media-fear machine. Then what? No breasts on planes, because of some woman ingesting just the right chemicals to turn her titties into flamethrowers? Why does that both frighten and excite me? I may die from a woman flambéing me with her death-breasts, but hey, I’ll get to see boobs…

Seriously, if there are no boobs on flights, I’ll swim to Europe, thank you very much.

Part of me really hopes this stops people from flying, like 9/11 was supposed to but didn’t. Never mind that it’s been the safest way to travel for the last thirty years, and that it can cross distances in hours that would take days by the second fastest mode of travel. I don’t want Americans to stop flying out of fear. I want them to stop flying because of the inconvenience; because they will say, “Enough already! When will you stop blowing the safety thing out of proportion and just let us decide if we should take that risk? I’m not flying until you let me be an adult and bring on the plane what I want to bring on the goddamned plane!” And it will probably work, being that Americans are all about convenience. Something becomes too inconvenient, we don’t fucking do it. Look at this little device. Or anything on this page.

So when does it end? When will this world we live in cease to be dangerous? Never, so stop waiting for it. Get over it, now. We are constantly at risk of death. I admit that dying scares the shit out of me; it’s totally irrational, but there it is. Yet I still go outside and live my life, being fully aware that at any minute my life can end from a bad driver, crazed postal worker, or a meteor streaking from space. Odds of that are near a trillion to one, so why isn't the media hyping that up?

Note:
Kudos to the USPS for its change in personnel policy. When was the last time you heard of a postal worker going bananas and killing his/her coworkers? Whatever they did, it worked. Much to the newsmedia's chagrin, I'm sure.

-Zeepdoggie

Brou-ha-ha!

Isn’t it fun when things at work get blown out off proportion? Isn’t it even better when you get caught up in it, too? The best is when it’s your fault!
At work yesterday, I was having the most productive shift ever in Hell. I made a shit-ton of wampum for the store and I opened three credit cards! Yay! I helped create more debt and further the false image of beauty that this country worships! But here’s the thing that set it all off, people; I could’ve had four credits.

A coworker who is a very selfish man and as shallow as a dry riverbed was getting jealous of my success. See, he takes the job seriously; he’s into it. In the Navy, we’d call him a dig-it. You can figure out why, because my readers are the sharpest knives in the drawer!
Mr. Me is what we’ll call him. And he’s so into himself, he’d like that.

Just so you know what kind of guy this fuckhole is, I will share a little background. As you all know, Mary dumped me some time ago, and some of you know that it still stings every once in a while. Well, when it had just happened, I was fucking miserable; I wasn’t eating or sleeping, I was constipated. I was so fucked up that I couldn’t jerk off. Me! The guy whose Indian name translates to “He who masturbates while running.” I wouldn’t go so far as to say I had lost the will to live, but I had just lost what I felt was the best reason.
Mr. Me attends the same church that Mary and I attended. He started going because he made the mistake of having sex on Saturday night with a woman who attends our church, and not waking up in time to avoid going to the service. We all find God in our own way, I suppose.
Anyhoo, he decides that, after seeing all the other attractive ladies that go to that church, he will start attending regularly. How he sleeps at night I don’t know. He’s still going to this day, and he has been in attendance after Mary and I broke up.
So he knows that we’ve split, and he takes every opportunity to talk about Mary; he sat by her at church, and how he sees her at the Young Adults meetings, and that he talks to her, or tries to, but she always seems distracted or going to work. He is talking to me about my ex right after we’ve broken up. And it is sounding like he is asking me if it’s okay for him to ask her out.
He doesn’t come right out and say it, but it’s the impression.

You hopefully have an idea of how fucking self-absorbed this prick is by now.

So, yesterday, he sees my success and he steals my credit. He sees me with the customer, he sees me
walk the guy into a dressing room. He hears me talking to the guy about his shirt not fitting, and me saying that I will get him one that will fit. While I am serving the needs of my customer (I feel like such a fucking whore when I say that; I need a very scrubby shower), he offers him credit.
It’s so amazingly hypocritical of him to do that. Two days prior, he accused GringO (my beloved albino monkey-boy) of stealing his credit, and we have another coworker who does this to us all the time, and Mr. Me is the first and last one to complain about it. Yet he does it to me, the guy who helps him with his sales and doesn’t receive acknowledgement for it; the guy who takes his greeting assignments so he can flirt unsuccessfully with customers; I’m the guy who has said in the past, “Oh, he’s not that bad!”

Yes he is. He’s a shit-for-brains Judas. Fuck him for his lack of consideration.

The thing is, everybody on the floor knows he stole the credit from me. The manager E, my guardo camino N, my grandmas J and GG, the cocksucking Mohican Twan, everybody. Even the store director hears about it.
Apparently, I am loved in that store, because everybody is on my side. My boss tells me that there isn’t anything official to do about it, but she will talk to him about how wrong it was.
The whole store in brouhaha mode, and it’s all my fault.
Like I said, it was the most productive day I’ve ever had there.

First Contact

Recently the girly told me of a procedure her brother would have to go through which involved a fiber-optic camera being fed up his urethra. This brought out a cringe and stirred up memories that are confusing to say the least.

When I was seventeen I had to have an operation to repair a herniated disc in my lower back. The surgery went well but there was a slight complication that arose. For those who have not had surgery you may not realize that they feed you drugs through an IV that keep you from defecating on yourself or urinating during the procedure. The last thing you need is for a doctor to throw up in your incision because of your recent taco dinner night.

Awaking afterward I kept myself in a semi-conscious to completely unconscious state with my self controlled morphine drip. Later I was forced to rely on the whimsies of the nursing staff and my claim that the pain was always a 10 on a scale going up to 10. Eventually they just gave me what was probably standard.

So about a half a day or more later they announced that I needed to urinate. I awkwardly rolled out of bed and shuffled, supremely unconcerned about my ass (or seat) on display for all, and tried to pee. No dice. This didn't really bother me but it was a concern for the nursing staff. They informed me that if I couldn't go by their next check they would have to insert a catheter. No pressure right?

The time came and I tried. I tried really hard. My face was probably a light shade of plum. In desperation I thought of Niagara Falls, lemonade, gurgling brooks and tidal movements in oceans in an attempt to coerce my bladder into releasing. The son of a bitch wouldn't mind. I was going to have to have a catheter inserted.

A young nurse or student, maybe 23 to 25, came in to perform the task. Here's something you should know: up to that point, nobody had even seen my penis in adult life, let alone touched it. Yeah, late bloomer, shaddup. When she lifted up my toga, as I like to think of it, and exposed my nether-regions to cold sterile hospital air, it was a bit awkward to say the least. Then she grasped the little guy, preparing him for insertion. As this was his first time being coddled he got a little happy. "OH MY FUCKING GOD, I'M GETTING A BONER" is all I could think. In my panic I threw images into my brain of baseball, old women, broken toes, puppies, melanoma and just anything without an erotic trigger. It kind of worked as I stopped at about 3/4 all the way to full mast.

The nurse kind of coughed, I assume trying not to laugh, and said "now, um, I need you to try and relax." I snapped "I AM trying to." After all I had just had back surgery, I was exposed and being handled by a stranger, and I was about to have a tube shoved up my urethra. Misery seemed so apt a description. That is until the tube began going in. Had I known the word at the time (thanks, Zeep!), I would describe the rest as a nadir. If forced to guess I'd say the tube was approximately 47 feet long. Once it stopped being fed in it was just frighteningly disconcerting. My bladder was allowed to unburden itself of one and a half large IV bags or so of urine. So I guess it was necessary.

Now every time I hear the words "catheter" or "urethra" I shudder, but I also think of the first time the little guy was seen and held. Since then I've become much more fond of baseball, love puppies more than ever, and have a strong attraction that borderlines on fetish for women who wear scrubs. As I said, its a confusing track of thought.

Today will be magic!

It was at 0630 that I almost blinded myself with a thumbnail.

I'm not taking that as a good omen, but then again, I've never been a glass half-full guy.

It is one sure way to wake up, that I do know.

-Zeepdoggie

My day, in bullet form

• Woke up at 0545.
• Left apt at 0620.
• Missed first train…dammit!
• Second train delayed by cranes between Oak Park & Austin stops, apparently just randomly picking shit up and putting it down somewhere else. Unimportant? Yes. Expensive? Yes. Good ol’ CTA.
• Go to my DD. Old man and Dimbulb working again!
• Noor arrives; a future with a Vanilla Coffee Coollata in it secured.
• Arrive in Hell 0725.
• Mandatory Waste of Time (Quarterly Meeting for All Staff) begins @ 0745.
• GringO and I refuse to take seriously. Much of the hidden laughter for the two of us. I am chastised for calling the part of your pants where your ass goes the “ass.” Apparently it’s “seat.” And if the mythical founder of this store were here, he’d smack us all for being a bunch of slack-jawed sissy-marys. Seat...
• Two hours later, only one thing is learned: I would’ve been better off not being here.
• Work begins. Also, gnashing of teeth, anal bleeding, and the accumulation of weeping, open sores on my soul.
• Learn I will leave two hours early, that God loves me more than I thought.
• Crack wise about white girls with dreadlocks to black girls. They laugh, but still won’t have sex with me. God laughs, too.
• Leave Hell. Train ride surprisingly schizo-free.
• Come home.
• Crash because caffeine has finally failed.
• Have dream about iPods thinking I am their god. And sexy, naked German women wearing boxing gloves, trying to throw grapes at me. And...Santa?
• Wake up. Decide to lay off of the caffeine for a little bit.
• Write this.
• Love you.


-Zeepdoggie

Bus Buddy

11-2005

My lack of a romantic life has come to an all-time low I think. Tired of having nobody and no achieveable prospects in sight, I've developed a habit of what call "bus buddy" relationships. Here is how they work:

I sit on the bus or train next to the window or glass partition, leaving an empty seat beside me. An attractive woman will take the seat next to me. Even with one side of my body pressed against the wall, there isn't a lot of room and inevitably our arms rest against each other.

All of a sudden, due to this simple and rather feeble contact with a woman, she becomes my girlfriend for the duration of our ride together. We are a couple simply sitting in silence next to each other; sometimes she is reading or listening to music or talking on her cell, but I am always reading. We've all seen these couples, happy in their minor contact. This illusion gives me a warm feeling.

Then she or I have to get off at the next stop. There are no tears shed, no long goodbyes. Typical to form to the girls I date, she will find another guy to ride another bus with and leave me. I go through the cycle of elation, comfort, contentment, fear, and loss that one finds in a relationship in the space of five to twenty minutes, possibly several times a day.

::GringO::

A Gringo says, "What?!"

A mental fart that whizzed by at work describing my new developing situation with the girly:

"Yeah, I'm involved with a new girl. She's a blind amputee. She was born blind, so that means nothing, really, but the amputee thing is farily fresh at two years. i like to rub oil on her nubbins (left arm, right leg) while making noises like a pigeon. She seems to like it..."

I hope you see that this makes more fun of me than her in my mind; that she must have some serious problems to get involved with me.

::GringO::

Obligatory Quiz Post

Having never posted a quiz result before, I decided that it had to be a quiz that I had no affiliation with. Therefore, let me introduce to you who I am in terms of "Sex in the City," a show I have never watched.

You scored as Steve Brady. You are Steve Brady, sweet, funny and totally devoted to your partner. Whoever gets you is a very lucky person. You love romance and are really fun to be around. You commit completely to whatever is in your life. Samantha Jones 83% Charlotte York 83% Steve Brady 83% Aidan Shaw 83% Miranda 75% Harry Goldenblatt 67% Carrie 50% Smith 50% Stanford Blatch 25% Mr Big 17% Which Sex and the City Character are you? created with QuizFarm.com

If someone can tell me whether it's cool or not for me to be associated with this Brady, let me know.

-Zeepdoggie

Today I Learned...

...that I am an asshole for not letting a guy in the store with a dog.

...that I am an idiot because I can't help a man find a specific restaurant he is looking for on State , even though he doesn't know the name, what kind of food they serve, or even the general location; just a restaurant on State.

...that Target was designed to be the bargain basement of Marshall Field's. Field's is gone, yet Target lives. There's a metaphor in there somewhere.

...that you hurt the ones you love, and that you love the ones who hurt.

...that the only constant is change.

...that penguins are sluts.

...that 15% of Americans bite their toes.

...that a female mannequin is not something you want to be caught cuddling. By anyone.

...that I can't recall ever meeting Stimpy.

...that people still attend masques.

...Zeepdoggie

Falls, Urine, Speed Records, and Sleep

From the Life of Gringo



Two Sundays ago I had quite the night. Phil and I were closing together and early on decided we needed to get a nice fix of ONeils. He called them from his cell phone (because it was actually programmed in) and confirmed they would be open when we got out of work.
We headed over after replenishing our cigarette stocks and began our rounds of Jack and Diet Coke. My plan was 4 for the usual monetary reasons but Phil of course decided on more, and I didn't fight extremely hard against it.

While we were playing Golden Tee, our newest addiction, this guy at the bar actually threw a pint glass at Serg, the bartender, but missed and broke a bottle. Serg started to come out from behind the bar to serve up a little knuckle justice, and he wouldn't have been alone as Phil and I had the type of righteous indignation of drunks whose bar has just been violated. But a friend stopped Serg and the guys left, not acknowledging my half-assed attempt at starting a fight by yelling "get the FUCK out!

It was an early night as the bar actually closed at 2. Phil and I were the last two left and we talked to Serg while polishing off free shots (the best kind by far). Phil was definitely wasted. He argued with Serg for 10 minutes about whether or not he could tame Serg's dogs within 30 minutes of meeting them, then he started his head shaking (he literally just shakes his head around when he gets really drunk) then passed out.

Fortunately we had paid up so I rolled Phil on out of there. He was way too drunk to drive home so I decided to get him on a bus and we'd get back to my place to sleep it off. Realizing Phil didn't have a CTA card for the bus I started taking us to the Grand stop. Right after crossing Michigan he started fighting me.
"Stop! Le' go!"
"OK, yer the boss man."
He kind of moved around, trying I supposed to face the direction he intended to go. Unfortunately he rolled back and hit this little incline that lines the railings of the little gardens in the middle of the sidewalks. He promptly fell backwards, his head hitting the railing. I was afraid he might have impaled his head but s I saw no blood or bone I figured he'd be OK. I lifted him up and put him in his chair, then continued on.
Every 50 feet or so he'd yell at me to stop, then I'd comply for a minute or two. At one point, I believe outside the ESPN Zone on Wabash, he told me to go away, to step back. I did and he then started talking to invisible people. From what I gathered it seemed he was talking to one of his sisters. Finally he kind of stopped so I continued until we got to the corner of Grand and Wabash where he wanted to stop again.
I decided to make a run for the train station to put 10 bucks on a card for him. First I had him promise not to roll away, as I didn't want to relive St. Patrick's Day, when we lost him for about two hours in the crowd, finding him later on a corner with an Irish flag, a green plastic bowler hat atop his head, and a big sloppy drunk grin. I hauled ass, put money on a card and came back, relieved that he was still there.
The trip to the bus stop was without incident, only a couple of drunken stops. Waiting at the bus stop at Ontario and Michigan I put a hand on Phil's chest to keep him from falling out of his chair as he had passed out again, all the while keeping an eye out for a bus. After 20 or more minutes I said "fuck it" and started heading towards the train. I was pretty sober and willing to wheel him down the stairs at the Grand stop, and the stairs at my own Bryn Mawr stop.

This trip back to the station was more eventful. Phil was still out so couldn't protest or tell me to stop. I was going at a good pace, my calves burning from being crouched over and taking half steps to avoid kicking the backpack on the back of the chair. I was crossing Rush or possibly Wabash again when the combined factors of Phil's weight, the backpack's weight, and the up-slope of the pavement made his chair tilt backwards.
I tried to hold him up, but instead I was dragged down and fell on my knee, throwing Phil into a 180 degree spin with the chair, and then he was dumped out backwards into the middle of the street, once again cracking his head on a hard surface. He didn't seem to mind. In fact he looked ready to take a nap. I cursed while standing up, grabbed our bags and threw them to the curb, then righted the chair and moved it to the curb as well. I bent down, forced Phil's arm around my neck and lifted him up and put him in the chair again, thinking to myself "aren't paraplegics supposed to be light? Fuck!" and Phil said "man, yer strong."
This car was stopped at the light, though I hadn't noticed. After I had Phil situated, the guy in the car got out and asked "you guys alright?" I grunted "yeah" over my shoulder, silently thinking "why didn't he say something earlier and help out?" and feeling ashamed at dumping a "cripple" in the middle of a street.
Standing on the sidewalk, now fairly well sober, I decided I'd drive Phil home in his car. I got us back across Michigan Ave. and headed to Ontario because he usually parks off of it. I said "hey, Phil, where you parked?"
"Mmehhh..." he responded.
"Is it off of Ontario like usual?"
"Naahh...."
"Which way then?"
"Thah way..." he said, pointing North. I walked two blocks up to Huron, then turned right, figuring he probably parked around Northwester Hospital. I walked all the way down to Lake Shore Drive, but didn't see his car. I made the decision to trust my instinct and go back to Ontario.

At some point I gave him my hoody to wear because he was cold while I was sweating my balls off from pushing. Going down Ontario he had me pull into a couple of doorways so he could go pee. Unfortunately he had used his last catheter in ONeils, which he kept forgetting even though I reminded him. In the second doorway as he tried to find the non-existent catheter again I made my own river of piss across the sidewalk, while Phil's burdened bladder just relieved itself in his pants. Ah, memories of St.Patrick's day...
Finally I spotted his car on a cross street. I got him to the passenger side but when I tried to lift the hoody to tell him he yelled at me saying he was trying to make himself feel better. He pulled the hoody that was draped over him tighter, looking like a cross between a sheet-covered corpse and a sleeping bird.
After a rest we extracted the urine dampened keys and opened the doors. On the move from the chair to the car he fell for the third time, this time into the gutter. I lost my instinct to laugh when I saw his legs contorted in very uncomfortable looking positions. I straightened them out and got him into the car, then we dismantled the chair and all was set.
Once in the car Phil sobered up a bit. I drove us to the highway, the hand control brake rod uncomfortably in the way of my foot. As we were going down the highway Phil politely suggested I use the hand controls or he would punch my legs. As the choice was clear I grabbed the handle, similar in shape and feel to a bike handle though larger.
After a few jerky take offs and nick of time braking I got the feel. When we got to the interstate Phil said he wanted me to break my speed record in his car, using the hand controls. Laughing like a madman I complied. I topped out at 105mph, barely in the lines, feeling just like I was in a highly realistic video game. I'd have to say that I was extremely lucky in not being pulled over because unlike Phil's drunken assertions that he would be in trouble as it was his car, I'm pretty sure I'd be the one taken to court and hanged or whatever it is they do in Illinois.

We arrived at his house around 5:00 in the morning, about 3 hours after we had left the bar. Getting situated to pull and all nighter by watching "Underworld Evolution" Phil took his cell phone out of his jean pockets to find it malfunctioning and coated, like the keys, with urine. A week later we found out his phone was corroded and unrepairable which was kind of funny to me because I knew why, but Phil couldn't remember.
He also told me about this sci-fi book he was reading which was good because I learned that when I had thought he was talking to one of his sisters who wasn't actually there, he was actually speaking to the sister of a main character after assuming the role of said character.

After laying down Phil fell asleep in about 4.5 minutes. I started drifting off almost immediately after putting down a Playboy to watch the movie. I managed to watch the love scene where I could almost see Kate naked, then crashed on the couch. Thus ended one of my most interesting drunken nights, though the times I've streaked and seen several sets of boobs have their high place as well.