Cam I Am

Cameron Tries Altruism, Is Rewarded Handsomely

2006-04-16T14:02:00.001-07:00

One of my best friends George just broke up with his live in 2-year girlfriend. Upon hearing the news I told him I was sorry, he called me a liar and I told him I felt it would be inappropriate to dance a jig on the bar.

To say his ex and I didn’t get along would be like saying the Holocaust was unpleasant for the Jews. I referred to her almost exclusively as “George’s chick” and would constantly ask him in front of her “when are you going to break up with this bitch?” Which at one point caused her to dump a drink on me. There was some tension. Unfortunately, George actually loved this one and at her request he and I started hanging out less and less. Luckily with her gone the dynamic duo are reunited and with me just coming out of a rather serious relationship we can commiserate and get really, really drunk together.

Saturday night George, myself and four other buddies went out to show him what he had been missing from single life. I was determined to get him laid and since I have been having a hall-of-fame month batting in the .750 range with 6 home runs I figured an RBI would look good on my resume too. I explain to him that “tonight your cock is my cock” and then slapped him in the balls because that is the retarded, juvenile slightly homo-erotic game we play. I then tell him to quit crying and get his game face on.

The next four hours are a blur of a dozen or so bars. I hit on every acceptable piece of tail I see and then just point them at George. Noting is taking. He’s still a little too depressed to take full advantage of the soft-balls I’m lobbing at him and we continue to bounce from bar to bar. I keep setting him up and he keeps whiffing. I pull him a side and offer him some inspirational words. Something along the lines of “What’s your fucking deal fag? I’m throwing snatch at you and you’re just sitting the pouting because that whore broke up with you? Guess what? She fucking sucked and the best thing you can do right now is fuck the shit out of some random. You do still like pussy right? Because after you performance tonight I’m starting to wonder.” That seemed to do the trick. He began to perk up. We’re right back in the game. We walk out of the bar at the night takes a horrible turn.

I see a familiar face on the street and turn to grab George but it’s too late he’s seen what I have. His ex, her tits almost falling out of her skimpy hooker top arm in arm with another guy. Their eyes lock and in George’s face I see the hurt, anger and confusion that I know all too well. Fuck. I have many options here but I decide to do what any good friend would do. I stepped back and let George take a swing at the guy.

By the expression on his face you could tell the poor bastard had no idea what was going on all he could be sure of it this was gonna suck. George landed a blow, which knocked the guy into the street where he nearly got hit by a car. This got everybody’s attention and the cries of “Fight!” rang loud in the chaotic night. Suddenly the reality of the situation hit me like George’s fist on an unsuspecting guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. I look around and realize that, just like every other Saturday night on Division there are three occupied cop cars about half a block away. It wouldn’t have been a huge deal but in our possession was a substance that when added to assault, disturbing the peace, and public intoxication equals jail time. I act quickly, grab George and throw him into the first cab I see. He is screaming like a fucking baboon and everyone is trying to console him which is making him angrier and angrier.

We go to another bar I send everyone in and tell George we’re taking a walk. We go back to my apartment and I begin to talk him down. I speak from a deeper wisdom I was unaware I possessed. I drew on my recent experience my friendship with George and my observations of his relationship. All the while exercising the versatility of the word fuck. It was a fucking masterpiece. I was amazed at my self. More importantly though, it worked. George was finally calm and we met up with the guys at the bar.

When I walked in surprise number two of the evening was sitting at the bar. Kelly, a girl from high school. Without getting into too much detail Kelly may have been one of the most unhealthy experiences I have ever had with a girl. While I realize that’s like a alcoholic picking out the worst drink he ever had she will always stand out as a disaster. She approached me and we talked for a while when finally I saw an opening. “You know how many favors you owe me? I’m cashing them all in right now. That’s my buddy George. He’s had a rough night and you’re going to go fuck him.” She looks over and says, “Ok, he’s cute.” and walks toward him. I motion to George to let him what’s going on and leave them alone. My job here is done, no-one could boot this lay-up. Kelly was there with Audrey another girl from high school who just moved to Chicago and essentially immediately started fucking me. She grabs me and tells me she is moving tomorrow. I shrug apathetically but she immediately gets my attention “I’m leaving tomorrow. I need your cock in my mouth tonight.” Now I’m listening. “Alright, I have to go take care of something but we’ll at your apartment in half an hour.” “Who’s we?” “Kelly and I.”

On a night where my only goal is to get my friend laid, I go home with two girls. All this time I thought the gods punished hubris.

Cameron’s St. Pat’s Miracle.

2006-04-16T14:02:00.000-07:00

As many of you have noticed there have been no stories on my site for over a year now. When asked why my response was always “that kind of crazy shit just doesn’t happen to me anymore.” I chalked it up to maturing and becoming an adult as I watched the aura of my former self fade over the horizon like a winter sunset. It was strange to release that part of me in exchange for more adult activities but I just assumed it was time. That was until March when from the ashes of a break-up a Phoenix rose more powerful than ever.

I have been on fucking fire this month, rock stars have had less fun than I have. Almost non-stop drinking, partying and women. All of a sudden “that kind of crazy shit” did start happening again and luckily for me it started right around St Patrick’s Day. Here in Chicago, especially this year St. Patrick’s Day lasts a week, literally. The actual day fell on a Friday but the previous Saturday was the Downtown Parade, Sunday was the South side Irish Parade, and no one really seemed to take a break. Between the first streak of nice weather and a build in excuse to be an alcoholic this town turned into a week long college kegger.

The day of the Downtown parade I, like our entire staff, worked at the bar but by 11:00 P.M. everybody had drunk themselves retarded and I was cut. I took this opportunity to talk to a girl with who I had hooked up with a few years earlier, Melissa. I’ve always kind of had a thing for her but nothing ever really happened between us for various geographical and relationship issues, but at this moment she’s here and we’re single. We were bullshitting when all of a sudden she asked “Do you have weed at your apartment?” Of course I did. “Who do you think your talking to?” “Well if you want to go smoke I’ll make it worth your while.” And were off.

We smoke a bowl, make out and things are going well. I excuse my self to take a piss and give myself a pep talk. When I return however I find her passed out on the couch. I try to wake her and she explains her immediate need for a trashcan, in which she absolutely unleashes her stomach contents. When she’s finished I try to move her into the bedroom and after some arguing and struggling I finally get her in bed where she almost immediately rolls off the mattress hits her head on the nightstand, falls to the floor and again mutters “trashcan.” As I bring her the almost half full bucket o’ puke I begin to wonder if this is what she meant by making it worth my while. I give her a pillow and blanket and almost get kicked in the face trying to take off her shoes. I take a quick survey of the situation and realize that this is clearly going nowhere, it is only midnight I have a good 5 hours of drinking to do. I make sure the trashcan is with in reach and tell Melissa that I’m going out. She grunts something and passes out.

Confused by the turn of events but happy the puke didn’t end up on me this time, I wander to my local late night bar and it is packed with tail. I ignore my friends who are there and immediately go to work on a tall brunette with bright blue eyes. I’m funny, she’s drunk, and I know what happens next but suddenly I think, “Wait. What’s my plan here? Take her home and say ‘yeah, just move the drunk chick out of the way she’s passed out. It’ll be fine we’ll make it a two-and-a-half-some.’” I seriously consider it for a moment but decide instead to go to the one place I can be guaranteed there will be no attractive women. I head over to my bar

I belly up to the bar and begin to tell the story of what happened after I left. Some laugh some are sympathetic and others call me an asshole. I have a few beers and am just about to leave when one of my random hook-ups walks in. She sits next to me and after a little small talk I decide it’s the bottom of the ninth I’m 0 for 1 and it’s time to swing for the fences. If I’m going down it’s swinging. I turn to her and say “I’m going to the back bathroom, come blow me.” With out another word I get up and do exactly what I said I would. 10 seconds later there is a knock at the door. “Cam? You in there.”

It could be. It might be. It is. A homerun.

The Aristocrats

2006-02-18T14:25:00.000-08:00

For anyone who hasn't seen the movie The Aristocrats go rent it. It is a documentary on a joke that is well known throughout the comic community. The joke consists of only the opening and the punch-line. The middle of the joke allows the teller to create what usually becomes the most disgusting acts his warped mind can conceive. After watching the movie I had to come up with my own version of the joke. Here it is. A warning this is vile, horrific and wrong in every sense of the word. Enjoy.

A man walks into a talent agent with an idea for a show. He describes it as a family show with his pregnant wife his son daughter and even the family dog. The agent is hesitant but asks the man to proceed. “Ok” he starts:

“The show opens with my wife alone on the stage lit by a spotlight, cradling her pregnant belly singing quietly to our new child. A second spotlight illuminates my young daughter brushing the hair of her doll and singing the same song and she and her mother’s beautiful voices meet in a moving chorus. Another light shows my son quietly drawing. As the song draws to a close I enter holding a bottle of whiskey which I drink. After the bottle is empty I walk over to my wife and shove the bottle up her as and really start to give it to he back and forth until it creates a vacuum. I then yank the bottle out of her ass which collapses her anus at takes some intestine out with it I keep pulling until there in a good three or four feet of entrails hanging out of her rectum. My son then stands up from his drawing and starts blowing me. After a while I break the bottle over his head and use the glass to stab a hole in my daughters stomach which I then begin to fuck until she vomits. At about this point the family dog Sparky comes on stage and grabs the pink sock hanging out of my wife’s ass and plays a game of tug-o-war. Mean while my unconscious son lies bleeding and looses control of his bowels defecating all over the stage. My daughter starts jacking off the dog into the puddle of blood and shit and vomit. I grab a hanger and fish the unborn fetus out of my wife’s womb Poke a hole in its tender skull and begin to fuck it in the head. When I come blood, embryonic fluids, undeveloped brain matter and jiz begin to spill out of the eye sockets into the puddle of fluids already surrounding my son. As I pull my member out of the skull my wife licks my cock clean as I anally fist my young daughter and stomp the fetus into the ever growing pool of fluid which is now being saturated with my wife and daughters collective tears. When the time is right the whole family, minus the boy who is barley clinging to life, get down on all fours and lick the stage clean. We take a bow as the curtains close.”

The agent sits in shock and finally asks, “What do you call such a thing?”

The man replies confidently “The Aristocrats”

2005-10-21T15:13:00.000-07:00

Guess who's back in the mutha fuckin house with a big fat dick for your mutha fuckin mouth . . .

Alright, I finally have a place of residence with a computer and Internet access.

Stay tuned I have new stories and other shit that I will be posting soon.

Thanks for your patience.

Cameron

2005-06-30T21:07:00.000-07:00

Hello Bitches,

I realize the has been nothing new on the site recently. I'm working on that so back off. I have been dealing with some serious health issues and other shit I also quit the job that allowed me reliable access to a fast Internet connection. I am working on a few things including a mini-epic about my 2 and a half week hospital stay.

Hope everyone is doing well

Take it easy

Cameron

Whoring for the Man

2005-03-15T09:34:00.000-08:00

As you may have noticed, I put some adds on the site. I tried to make them as inconspicuous as possible. I don't really like it but they are a necessary evil for a a couple of reasons.

If everyone could do me a favor and click on a few of them when you visit it would really help me out. You don't have to buy anything just click.

Also, there will be a new story out soon, (possibly 2) if you're not already on the mailing list. Sign up now by e-mailing me (SpYdiR_9000@yahoo.com) with something like 'mailing list' as the subject

Thanks

Cameron

I am Jack's Imaginary Stuffed Tiger

2005-03-11T10:25:00.000-08:00

Normally, I just put these things in the Random Links section but this was so incredibly entertaining and insightful that I felt it deserved its own post.

This article explains that the Edward Norton character in Fight Club is actualy an adult Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes. Take some time to read it.

I Am a Fantasy Baseball Manager. You Are a Huge Nerd

2005-03-10T11:51:00.001-08:00

I'd like to first apologize to all of you who aren't at all interested in sports and read only my stories while skipping the articles devoted to baseball. Just to forewarn you, as The Season is almost upon us my site will probably be saturated with more sports related writings, there will still be stories and stuff but those of you who know me are aware that baseball consumes a majority of my time from April-October.

The following post is (optimistically) probably interesting to about 3 people other than myself, but I wanted to put it up anyway. It is an account of my fantasy baseball draft from Wednesday night.

I'm not going to pretend that fantasy sports are not incredibly nerdy, because let's face it, they are. I don't care. I love doing it. It gives me an interesting perspective on the game and it's numbers while at the same time having characteristics completely unique unto itself. There are strategies and tricks like everything else and while an overwhelming knowledge of baseball is extremely helpful it won't stand up alone.

Our league, now in its second year, consists of ten teams:

Six, returning from last year:

Fired for 'Roids - Sean (Co-Commissioner and my arch rival in this)

Bunch of Idiots - Kevin (The Tampa Ray Devil Rays of Fantasy Baseball)

More Chin Music 4U - Chad (Last years surprise winner who snuck past me in the Championships after an entire season of shellackings at my hands)

Skirt in the Dirt - Victoria (The chick)

Evil Empire - Kenny (A die hard Yankees fan who can be tricked into
ridiculous trades as long as he is getting someone who is currently or once had an at bat in pinstripes)

Killah Cam - Me (the other Co-Commissioner. That's right, bitches,
recognize.)

And four new invitees:

Alpha-Betas - Cappy (Will talk more shit than anyone regardless of success)

Sosa's Bitch - Bucces (Has no idea what he's doing, just along for the ride)

ChiSox - Joe (I'm not sure if he knows either)

Orihoes - Dan (Kinda got roped into it because we needed a tenth and he happened to be there at the time)

We use Yahoo's fantasy league because it's free and easy and has customizable scoring. We use 17 different statistics (batting average, runs, hits, homeruns, RBI's, stolen bases, strikeouts, fielding percentage, and OPS for position players and innings pitched, wins, losses, saves, strike outs, holds and WHIP for the pitchers) A team consists of 23 players total: 8 starting position players 5 bench players 10 pitchers that can be any combination of starters, relievers and closers. Every day you start 8 position players, 2 starting pitchers 2 bullpen guys and 1 other pitcher that can be a starter or reliever.

Every week the teams compete head to head in each category every day. For every statistic in which a team scores higher than his opponent, he gets a win and vice versa. Standings are kept just like MLB and during the last few weeks of the season, there is a play-off/World Series-esque match up to determine who is the winner.

Other than pride and an off-season of bragging rights each manager puts in $50. Second place gets his money back and the winner gets $400 (plus his 50)

This year, in keeping with tradition, we are having a live draft at a bar. There are a few things that ALWAYS happen during this time, a ridiculous amount of shit talking and mind games designed to ruin peoples confidence and force them to make stupid picks, half the people insisting that it's moving too fast while the others complain that it's too slow both resulting in half-retarded picks fueled either by waning interest and the desire to speed things along or feeling like you are pressed
for time and throwing out names like Vinny Castillia or Paul Bako. By far my favorite aspect for the live draft is the inevitable late round, drunken, heart pick. This year my money is on Kenny falling for Tino Martinez way too early.

As I mentioned this is definitely dorky but there is $400 and the right to talk shit on the table so I have been preparing for weeks. Reading every early scouting report, spring training box scores and of course heading the infinite wisdom of Peter Gammons, a man who has consumed so much baseball knowledge in his life, he could take a shit that could bat .300 with 40 HR and 115 RBI's. I'm ready.

A few things one must remember when compiling a fantasy team: Offensive players are much more valuable than starting pitchers as they play every day as opposed to once a week. Catchers NEVER play 162 games so taking one early is a waste, sure everyone wants I-Rod but he's not worth passing up a regular position player because outside of injury he's playing probably 70-75% as many games. Players that are listed at multiple positions are awesomely valuable because on bye-weeks or in the event of
an injury it's nice to have several options. Another important thing is there are always a few stats that get overlooked, in our league it is stolen bases for position players and holds for pitchers. Get a soild guy here and you can steal more than a few games.

Most importantly though, you have to be prepared. Everyone wants the same 15 players. Everyone wants Vlad, Pujols, Teajada, and Beltran most people want Bonds and A-Rod (I personally REFUSE to put them on my team). You need to know the best options behind the superstars. For example I will not draft anyone not on the list below (except a few late round pitchers and OF). Every position is ordered by who I want down to who I will settle for, this minimizes the chances that the drinking and shit talking will cause me to make bad picks:

Starters:
Johan Santana
Jason Schmidt
Ben Sheets
Carlos Zambrano
Tim Hudson
Mark Prior
Kerry Wood
Roger Clemens
Curt Schilling
Randy Johnson
Roy Oswalt
Pedro Martinez
Oliver Perez - Pit
AJ Burnett
Josh Beckett
John Smoltz
Brad Radke
Livan Hernandez
CC Sabathia
Jake Peavy

Bullpen:
Eric Gagne
Mariano Rivera
Brad Lidge
Keith Foulke
Billy Wagner
Armando Benitez
Francisco Rodriguez
Jason Isringhausen
Joe Nathan
Trevor Hoffman

Catchers:
Victor Martinez
Ivan Rodriguez
Javy Lopez
Joe Mauer
Jason Kendall
Jason Varitek
Mike Piazza
Johnny Estrada
Michael Barrett
Paul Lo Duca

1B:
Albert Pujols
Todd Helton
Jim Thome
Derrek Lee
David Ortiz
Aubrey Huff
Mark Teixeira
Carlos Delgado
Richie Sexson
Sean Casey

2B:
Alfonso Soriano
Mark Loretta
Marcus Giles
Jeff Kent
Bret Boone
Todd Walker
Jose Vidro
Chone Figgins
Mark Bellhorn
Tony Womack

3B:
Aramis Ramirez
Scott Rolen
Eric Chavez
Adrian Beltre
Melvin Mora
Aubrey Huff
Hank Blalock
Mike Lowell
Chipper Jones
Troy Glaus

SS:
Miguel Tejada
Nomar Garciaparra
Edgar Renteria
Michael Young
Carlos Guillen
Jimmy Rollins
Rafael Furcal
Orlando Cabrera
Jack Wilson
Khalil Greene

OF:
Vladimir Guerrero
Bobby Abreu
Manny Ramirez
Ichiro Suzuki
Carl Crawford
Miguel Cabrera
Jim Edmonds
JD Drew
Adam Dunn
Juan Pierre
Carlos Lee
Johnny Damon
Steve Finley
Magglio Ordonez
Vernon Wells
Brian Giles
Jason Bay
Jose Guillen
Garrett Anderson
Milton Bradley

Yes, I made an excel file and printed it out and will bring it with me. I also have three different lists of the top 100 projected players in every position for next year, just incase. And of course my notebook to record the draft. I don't necessarily need all of this but it couldn't hurt and it's another subtle mind game.

Originally I planned to keep a running journal of the draft but, unfortunately, as Co-Commissioner, I had certain responsibilities like crossing names of the master list as well as my wish list, drinking about a dozen beers, drafting for Joe who was unable to attend at the last minute, eating a burger, and making condescending comments about other peoples picks.

The draft was set to begin at 6:00 PM, we decided the over/under for actual start time at 7:30. Amazingly, we were under way at 6:03. Once everyone was assembled we annexed the back room and began.

Everyone's name was put in a hat and the draft order was set. Sean, much to his chagrin got the first pick, he announced that he would trade with either Kenny or Kevin but they got picks 2 and 3 respectively and he saw no advantage to that. I ended up 4th which isn't terrible and the rest of the group fell as Joe, Dan, Cappy, Bucces, Chad and Victoria.

In the first round, Pujols went first to Sean. Kenny, predictably drafted A-Rod and Kevin, not surprisingly, took Manny. I got Vlad and was happy to do so since he was my second choice over all and this way I didn't have to actually root for a Cardinal. I gave Joe Bonds because I am somewhat altruistic and no one really wanted that scumbag on their team anyway. Dan chose Carlos Beltran because he, like the Mets, believes that Beltran is the juggernaut everyone saw in the post-season, not the .284/27/104 guy his career numbers dictate. Cappy, in a surprise move, picked up Johan Santana I openly mock him for taking a pitcher, but secretly commend his choice as Santana is arguably one of the best in the game in one of the worst divisions in baseball. Bucces went with Bobby Abreu, a solid, albeit strange, 1st pick. Chad took Alfonso Soriano which was the best possible choice at that point and Vic grabbed Tejada and Gagne on the comeback both good picks.

Rather than bore the last two people still reading this with 22 more paragraphs of round by round coverage I'll just hit a few highlights and provide you with the like to the site if you want to check it out.

As the draft went on I realized that Cappy and I had similar game plans and in consecutive rounds he stole two of my sleeper picks (Aubrey Huff and Carl Crawford) then started drafting middle relievers to lock up the hold category. That evil bastard. Luckily his first two picks were pitchers and that is more than likely going to fuck him in the end. Plus I got a few of the picks he wanted, too. This should be interesting.

Kenny, either because he was shit-faced or because he wanted to surprise us not only drafted as many Cubs as Yankees but he also took Tim Wakefield from the Red Sox. (Also I was wrong about the drunken heart pick with Kenny it turned out to be Giambi not Martinez)

Kevin was so hammered by the 5th round that it took him roughly 4 years to make every pick. Someone would nudge him or offer advice and he would drift into a 5 minute diatribe about how everyone need to stop trying to fuck with him. So that was fun. Then every time someone else drafted a player from the Red Sox, he would yell at them despite the fact that he drafted someone else instead mere moments ago.

Chad was not drinking because he had a mid-term on Thursday and with each passing round of picks and beers he was becoming increasingly more furious with the drunken monkeys by whom he was surrounded. Luckily, since EVERYONE is afraid of Chad one loud profanity from him and the draft would move smoothly for at least 2 rounds.

Dan took Vinny Castilla. Granted it was in the 22nd round but he still looked at the 500 or so remaining players and said to himself "You know what? Vinny's gonna be my guy." That was my favorite moment of the draft.

3 hours and 23 rounds and a $300 bar tab later we were finally finished. All in all I like my team especially since I was able to stuff it with trade bait to bolster the pitcher/outfield positions which as of right now are sorely lacking.

Anyway here's the link to the league if by some chance anyone is still reading this and at all interested.

http://baseball.fantasysports.yahoo.com/b1/158743

Mailing List.

2005-03-04T14:21:00.000-08:00

I realize I haven't put anything new up in a while and for that, I apologize. I am now working 70 hours a week and there is some ancillary shit right now that is making it difficult for me to write with any sort of regularity, however, as soon as I put something new up I will send everyone in my contact list and e-mail to let them know. If I don't have your address, but you would like to be notified of new stories, please send me an e-mail at SpYdiR_9000@yahoo.com with the subject Mailing List.

Thanks

Cameron

What is Art?

2005-02-17T18:52:00.000-08:00

Although some people consider writing an "art form," as a "writer" I feel it is unfair to true artists to juxtapose the written word with some of the work by obscenely talented artists like my friend Marcelo.

While I find myself extraordinarily jealous of his skill and on many a dark night have plotted to murder him and consume his brain in order to hopefully absorb some of his super human capabilities, I simply cannot bring myself to do so, I'm sure he appreciates it.

TOPIC: Please take some time to view his art here While it may be considered “dark”, and many of you may not "get it" there is no denying the raw talent he possesses. Enjoy.

Cameron Falls in Love

2005-02-17T17:39:00.000-08:00

Monday was Valentines Day, which I apparently spent, and I’m quoting here “sitting at a table with [Previous Hook-Up] holding hands and staring into each others eyes.” I have no memory of this. I was incensed. When Sean told me, I promised to deliver unmentionable suffering upon his person if he did not stop spreading this slanderous filth. That’s when he went to the video replay.

TheBar has surveillance cameras and the Manager loves to give me shit, so when he saw how I was spending this most sacred of Hallmark Holidays he made sure to save the tape. We walked down stairs and there on the screen was exactly what Sean had described to me. I was disgusted with myself as a man and all I wanted to do was get in the shower and scrub myself like a rape victim. It was horrible.

Anyway, apart from this disgusting display, V-Day got me thinking about all of my past “relationships.” To say that they failed would be to imply that, at some point, they had even a remote chance of success. There was the 19-year-old I turned into a lesbian. Twice. The Hooters chick that stole my cat. On my birthday. The stripper who tried to run me over with her car. And who could forget, the girl who tried to stab me and , upon failing to do so, broke a beer bottle on the back of my head. But then there was you. You know who you are. . .

You’ve always been there for me, as far back as I can remember. Always stood by my side never judging, always loving. You aren’t like the others. You always put my needs first and you’re so easy to hang out with. No fancy dinners, no boring conversations, no lavish gifts, you’re content to just be around me. You like all my friends and enjoy a ballgame or a few drinks at the bar as much as a quiet night alone. Best of all, you always seem to be there when I need you.

And the sex. Dear god, it’s glorious. You always seem to know exactly what I like. With out even asking you are willing to please me as often as I want. Concerned only with my happiness, you ask nothing in return. No cuddling no pillow talk, as soon as I’m satisfied you light me a cigarette, crack me a beer and change the channel to ESPN.

Sure, we’ve had our problems. I’m sorry about all the cheating but I always come back to you don’t I? You’re the one I love, those others didn’t mean anything to me you know that. I’m sorry about your sister, it was a horrible drunken mistake. You two look so much alike. Can you ever forgive me? I want you back. I want us to be together forever. I’m sorry to do it like this but I wanted everyone to know. I wanted to prove to you that you’re the one I want. I thought this was the best way to do it.

I don’t know if it makes any difference but I still carry your picture with me. I love you.

Via con Dios, Sammy

2005-02-03T17:42:00.000-08:00

I had originally entitled my valedictory Sosa article "Hendry Finds Cure for Cancer." It was a seething attack of a man I called an abandoner, an egomaniac, a cheater and a prima donna. It then moved in to an uncomfortable verbal fellatio of Jim Hendry and his shrewd negotiating skills, finally resolving with joyous "See ya' Sammy Suckass." That was the way I felt, or so I thought.

I had been saying for some time that The Cubs had to get rid of Sammy. I actually wanted it done 2 years ago so the could have made a move for Vlad Guerrero on the free agent market, but what do I know? I'm just a fan. Vlad won the MVP, Sammy missed 40 games and hit .252 with 130 strikeouts. Bitterness and righteous indignation aside, his departure was long overdue.

I can't pin point exactly when I started my descent toward despising Sammy but I turned on him like a pre-menstrual chick on a gossiping co worker. It wasn't so much a single incident but rather an amalgamation of events. Either way, before I knew it, he had become the focus for a disproportionate amount of my rage.

I watched or listened to at least parts of all 162 Cubs games last year, scheduled my lunches around the 1:20 home games and I went to about 15 at Wrigley. I read articles and box scores, listened to interviews and press conferences. I got e-mails from Cubs.com after every game. I even compiled my own list of stats throughout the season in a 7 page Excel file. Yes, I'm a nerd. Shut up, that's not the point. I knew this team better than I know some of my friends, Sammy needed to go and I felt qualified to make that decision. I was also not shy about voicing said
opinion.

He had been slipping for a while but everything was magnified and seem infinitely more egregious last season. Following an injury, he refused a rehab assignment. Despite his anemic offense, he wouldn't move down in the batting order. He didn't even dress out for the final game and left before the first inning was over. During the off-season, in an interview with his home town Dominican paper, he blasted Dusty Baker, the Cubs and the treatment he received, claming it was unfair.

The Baker aspect was another interesting wrinkle in the rapidly unfolding Sammy Saga. Dusty, during his managerial campaign in San Francisco, had by all accounts, a good relationship with arguably the most difficult ego in the game: Barry Bonds. Baker and Balco (oops, Barry) got along fine, yet he and Sammy had a tumultuous power struggle that was well publicized and created a rift within the fans and players. It wasn't working. It was time to move on. Everyone knew it.

Sammy wanted out, too. He restructured his contract so that it would be easier for him to be unloaded. It was just a matter of time. So, I waited and waited. Days passed, abound with rumors of his trade, The Mets, The Rangers, The Nationals, The Braves. The papers and talk radio shows were almost entirety devoted to his possible move. But nothing was happening. I was becoming increasingly anxious, all the marquee free agents were signing elsewhere and we were still stuck with Sosa. I was beginning to think the deal would never go through. It looked bleak. I knew that another year with Sosa was another year without a World Series.

Then, suddenly, it happened. Friday night, Brehon Pub, my phone rang. A deliriously overjoyed friend began shouting "He's gone! Sosa's gone! He got traded to Baltimore! He's finally out!" I took a deep breath and calmly informed him that if he were fucking with me, I would feed him his vital organs in front of his family. He assured me that it was true. To verify, I turned on ESPN and there it was. He was gone. I ordered a round of like 12 celebratory shots for the people around me, some weren't even Cubs fans, several couldn't care less, still others didn't know me and asked that I stop hugging them and yelling in their ear.

I called everyone I knew who was even remotely interested in The Cubs to tell them. It was met with mixed reactions as it was pretty late and I was hammered and yelling almost unintelligibly, but I didn't care. I was too excited to concern myself with trivial things like etiquette or the possibility of waking people up. Sammy was gone, everyone needed to know.

At that point I wasn't even sure about the conditions of the trade, not that it really mattered, the albatross was gone. I would have been happy with a beer vendor and a mascot. I spent the next few days researching the players we got, it looked good. 2 solid prospects and a utility guy who could bat lead off play in the outfield and in the infield as needed. Nice. Hendry did it again.

Wednesday afternoon I was putting the finishing touches on my article when my friend Sean invited me out for a drink. We met at The Green Door Tavern up the street to have a few beers and watch the press conference that would finalize something I had been wanting for a long time. It was good to have Sean there as he is one of the only other people I know who shares and understands my ridiculous infatuation/borderline obsession with the Cubs. We had discussed this moment numerous times before and it was now finally here. We were both giddy with excitement.

We watched the TV intently, waiting and talking when finally, there it was. The podium, the painted backdrop of Camden Yards and Sammy Sosa, sharing the same smile Sean and I had plastered on our faces. This was it. They showed highlights of Sammy's time with the Cubs, his homeruns, a few diving catches, his trade mark sprint out to right field. I grumbled and asked why they didn't show any footage of him flailing wildly at a face high fast ball to end an inning. Where were the botched routine fly ball shots? Then I realized, I didn't care, I would never have to see those thing again, why let bitterness get in the way of such a magical moment.

Sammy was finally introduced to the crowd. I watched as he took of his jacket and pulled on the bright white jersey with "Orioles" scrawled across the front in orange and black cursive. The familiar "SOSA 21" emblazoned on the back. He smiled again as he put on the hat, kissed his fingers, tapped his heart and it was final. Sosa was no longer a Cub. I went to breathe a sigh of relief, but it didn't come.

I was suddenly awash in a wave of unexpected emotions, to call it bitter sweet would be a trite oversimplification and surprisingly, I took very little enjoyment in it at all. What was happening? I felt a twinge of loss, a strange, almost painful nostalgia. "No," I said. "This is what I wanted. This is what I've been waiting for. Why does it feel like this. I'm supposed to be happy." I searched for that unbridled joy I had felt upon first learning about the trade 4 days earlier but it wasn't there, I was confused. I looked to Sean and it was obvious he was struggling with the same things. "I feel like I just dumped my girlfriend and thought it was ok until I saw her at the bar with another man, smiling." he said "I want him back."

We both sat in silence wrestling with a bevy of unforeseen feelings. We watched and listened as Sammy thanked the city of Chicago and all of the fans. He said he wanted to finish his career here and he wishes it could have been different. I'm sure he was told to say those thing but it felt genuine. I could see that he loved it here and despite all the shit, he was going to miss us, too.

Then just to cap it off, he equated the situation to a marriage saying, "Sometime ju gotta getta divorce." Ouch. Then a big grin returned to his face, accentuated by the flashing cameras. He paused as if to soak in the feeling of being wanted and appreciated again. He held it for a little longer than I wanted. You could tell he was enjoying it. Finally he said he was looking forward to the future and his new team. I suddenly began to have my doubts about the whole thing.

The gravity of the situation finally hit me, we just paid twelve million dollars to get rid of a Chicago icon, the most prolific offensive force in the history of Cubdom and a first-ballot-hall-of-famer.

I still think it was the right move but I got so caught up in the disappointment and anger, I forgot how much he meant to this city. He had his faults, his skills were declining but now that he's gone, I can't help but think of the first homerun I saw him hit in person, or the ball he threw into the stands during Game 2 of the NLCS. A ball that glanced of my finger tips and fell just short of my out reached hands. I remember him charging out to right field proudly waving that little American flag after 9-11. Even now the sneezing and the corked bat fade away and I'm reminded of a man I cheered for, a man who helped save my favorite sport. A man who was the face of the North Side for a decade and arguably the best Cub to ever play.

Despite all the incendiary, degrading things I said and wrote, it still hurt to watch him leave.

I'm gonna miss you, Sammy. I wish you the best. I'm sorry we couldn't make it work but I'll see you in Cooperstown where I know you'll be wearing Cubby Blue.

David Hansen

2005-01-12T17:52:00.000-08:00

This is a story from a while ago that I had actually forgotten about until the other night when I was talking to a girl at a bar. I don’t like it as much because I’m not the main character and it’s not as well written as most of my other work, but I felt I needed to put something up while I’m finishing up some other stories.

Several month ago, myself, Drougs, Dahlsy and Staggs went to TheBar after work. We’re just hanging out, shooting the shit and watching the game. Pretty standard stuff until in walks David Hansen.

Despite the fact I had never met this man before, I immediately knew his name, as it was embroidered on the back of his leather vest, just above a dragon and the words “World Champion.” He is an older man shoulder length grey hair and matching goatee. Leather pants, a sparkly, multi-colored shirt beneath the aforementioned vest and biker boots. He drives a Harley. It is true you cannot buy ‘cool’ and attempts at doing so have hilarious results.

Dahlsy becomes enraptured with this man and after a while calls him over. The obvious question “what are you the world champion of?” is quickly asked. The answer: hairpieces. He is a 7 time state, 5 time national and two time world champion in hair piece design.

Immediately he is fascinating. We begin talking to him about his accomplishments shooting pool and pounding drinks. At some point in the evening Hansen suggests that we go to another bar down the street.We agree, pay the tab and head outside, where we encounter a homeless man who looks EXACTLY like Grady from Sanford & Son. I inform him of this and he feigns amusement. Hansen invites Grady along. I begin whistling the song from Sanford & Son and giggling to myself. The joke is getting old but I am still thoroughly amused, so I continue.

Hansen says he wants to stop at his apartment to change, and invites us up.

I am going to try and describe Hansen’s apartment but I fear even my literary prowess will fall short of capturing the eerie, uncomfortable yet polished and engrossing surroundings in which I found myself. In a single phrase I think it could best be described as a Stanley Kubrick nightmare. The entire apartment was open and surprisingly voluminous, although the lack of room separation and floor to ceiling mirrors that covered almost every wall may have attributed to the perceived size. In the center of the room was an aquarium, containing several small, live birds. A bed against one wall with the obligatory bedroom adornments and a rather ornate and expensive looking oriental, free standing partition. Were it not for the eccentricities I could see this place being rather posh and I imagined it to be exceedingly expensive.

By far the most unsettling aspect of this whole place were the mannequins. They were arranged everywhere throughout the space. At least a dozen of them. All with the same blank plastic expression they shared with their owner. Some were adorned in multi-thousand dollar Hansen hair pieces, others were contorted in strange, unnatural positions. One in particular was lying on the floor wrapped in strings of Christmas lights, bound like an abducted rape victim in the trunk of a car. I tried not to spend too much time examining these unsettling still-lifes as in all honesty, they fucking freaked me out. I backed away cautiously eying these strange models and half shuddering. I returned to the group that had now found a place on the couch, Hansen excused himself momentarily and returned with a tin full of weed that could only be described as the stickiest of the icky. He rolled an enormous spliff and began to pass it around. I declined participation as weed has a tendency to give me panic attacks and my soundings would in no way be conducive in calming me after the onset of such an affliction.

Hansen offered Grady a cut and a shave and led him to the barber chair and station that was set up in the far corner of the apartment. Dahlsy, after he became sufficiently intoxicated, he began to wander around the apartment removing hairpieces from the displays and placing them on his head. With each toupee, emerged a new persona. He would change accents, dance around and perform skits. This continued for quite some time. It was amusing to a point but after a while his originality ran out and he began doing piss poor impressions of movie and television characters. I turned my attention to a photo album sitting on the table.

Thumbing through the pictures, the first half were mostly of Hansen, his multiple motorcycles and from what I could deduce, a limousine company he used to own. The second half however was completely different and I was in no way prepared for what was about to come. I had no desire to flip past the first two pages as they contained grainy, poorly focused pictures of primarily black chicks. Naked. Not even tasteful Playboy style nude shots, more like girls on bare, stained mattresses, spread eagle, uncomfortably close crotch shots. I have no idea how many there were but judging from the number of pages and assuming the theme continued throughout there were upwards of 100 pictures.

I decided it was time to leave. I informed the rest of the people of this, headed downstairs and lit up a cigarette. A few minutes later Drougs, Dahlsy, Staggs, Hansen and Grady immerge from the apartment, Hansen has changed outfits and now dons a blue jumpsuit with the same world champion patch.

We head into Butterfield 8. Butterfield 8 is a very upscale restaurant/bar with under lit floors, marble bar 10 dollar drinks and never less than 3 exotic hundred thousand dollar cars parked out front. Rumor has it this is one of Mick Jagger’s favorite spots when he comes to Chicago. When jumpsuit clad Hansen, Grady the hobo and my bosses and I walked in, EVERYONE in the bar stopped and looked at us. I took a quick assessment of the situation and without saying anything slipped away and got into a cab.

EDIT: Butterfield 8 burned down on Friday. I’m pretty sure it was insurance fraud.

Holiday Party

2005-01-10T17:44:00.000-08:00

On Monday TheBar had a Holiday Party, I was invited as I work there on occasion and am good friends with several of the employees. There really isn’t a whole story here but I felt the need to share a few highlights form the evening.

The first part of the party was at the Bulls game, while there I noticed a kid with a giant foam cowboy hat with horns. I decided my hat was not hilarious enough and I wanted his. I offered to purchase it from him and he demanded something outrageous like $20. I told him instead I would buy him some beer, luckily he declined. He was like 13 and I imagine I would have gotten into some trouble for that. It was also at this point I noticed his sister had a similar hat when I pointed this out to one of my buddies he said “Cam, if you go hit on a 15 year-old and steal her hat I don’t think we can hang out anymore.”

On the bus on the way back I realized I had to take a leak. I attempted to go out the window but that didn’t work very well so I grabbed a bottle and tried to relieve myself into it. I more just pissed all over the seats and the floor, threw the bottle out the window wiped my hands on my buddy Mike and then tackled him.

We had the bus drop us off at a bar despite the fact I no longer had any business being out in public. While at the bar I thought I was hitting on a chick. She asked me to write my number on a napkin I did and she asked if she could borrow my phone. She then called her internet boyfriend, in Tennessee, whom she has never met in person at a bar, on my fucking phone. During this conversation, which lasted 56 minutes according to my call log, he purchased her a plane ticket to come see him. I used this 56 minutes to hit on her friend, much more successfully.

I met another chick with whom for some reason I got into an argument about the Pythagorean Theorem. No, I don’t know why or how that happened. She claimed that the sum of the squares of the sides of a right triangle were greater than the square of the hypotenuse. I politely corrected her and after an exhaustive explanation, she completely abandoned her argument and claimed that she had agreed with me the whole time. I accused her of being a spineless flip-floper and suggested a career in politics. She got up to leave and I suddenly noticed, she had an incredible body. Damnit.

On my way home I met an Ecuadorian named Juan with whom I spoke in broken Spanish. He gave me one of his Coronas.

Date Application Page

2005-01-01T18:54:00.000-08:00

Lonely? Desperate? Affection starved? Or do you just find me inexplicably yet intoxicatingly attractive? If you answered yes to any of these questions, fill this out and you could win a date. With me.

Post responses here or if you would prefer email to SpYdiR_9000@yahoo.com

Stats

Name:

Age:

Height:

Weight:

Location:

General Questions

Why are you filling out this form?:

What is it that you find most attractive about me?:

How would you rate yourself in terms of your physical attractiveness?:

How would you rate yourself in terms of your intelligence?:

How would you rate yourself in terms of your emotional maturity and stability?:

I should compliment you by saying:

Finish this sentence: “I like a man who…

What is your most defining feature or characteristic?:

Why do you think you want to go out on a date with me?

Our First Date

When would we go on our date?:

What would you expect me to bring?:

What should I wear?:

What will we do on our first date?:

What type of food will we eat, assuming we go to dinner?:

What will we drink? (we will be drinking…or at least I’ll be drinking):

How much does it take to get you drunk?:

What will we talk about on our date?:

What will we do after dinner?:

How will the date end?:

Essay Question

Use this space to tell me exactly why it is I should date you. I would highly suggest including something funny, witty or intelligent, it can only help:

Veganism Kills

2004-12-17T17:50:00.000-08:00

From, OSU scientist questions the moral basis of a vegan diet "Millions of animals die every year to provide products used in vegan diets."

From, The Least Harm Principle Suggests that Humans Should Eat Beef, Lamb, Dairy, not a Vegan Diet. “Therefore, in this hypothetical example, the change to include some forage-based animal agriculture would result in the loss of only 0.9 billion animals of the field instead of 1.2 billion to support a vegan diet. As a result, the LHP would suggest that we are morally obligated to consume a diet of ruminant products, not a vegan diet, because it would result in the death of fewer animals of the field.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.

Take that you pompous, proselytizing, self-absorbed, hippy, pacifist jackasses. I’m sorry? What was that? Now who’s the inconsiderate prick? Huh? Well, it’s still me but, get off your fucking soap box, and let me enjoy my meat, in peace.

Fuck You Barry Bonds. Fuck You and Your “Flaxseed Oil”

2004-12-16T18:18:00.000-08:00

Well, here is my Bonds reaction. I took a while because I felt like I had a dick in my mouth and I knew what it was, I just pretended it was a lollipop because I didn’t want to deal with it until I got hit in the eye with a money shot.

Fuck You Barry Bonds. Fuck You and Your “Flaxseed Oil”

You’re ruining the game you arrogant, selfish, disgusting piece of shit.

How could you piss all over the game that gave you unimaginable wealth? A game that your father and godfather loved so much. You’re a fucking disgrace. Just kill yourself. Or better yet, give back all your records and all your money and bow out of the game. You're banished, exiled.

“But I didn’t know what it was.” SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU GODDAMN LIAR. Are you really so conceded and delusional or do you just think the fans are that stupid and gullible? Just for the sake of argument I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Let’s pretend you didn’t know. If I’m to believe what you said, you were using an “unknown substance” supplied by a man who “lives in his car half the time.” Those are your words. Your livelihood is directly tied to the health and condition of your body. But you want me to believe that you took a substance with which you were unfamiliar? Given to you by a man who was half homeless? Fuck you.

Again though, let’s imagine that you were ignorant of the contents of the hobo’s supplements. Wouldn’t you have stopped to ask a few questions When your voice changed? When your head grew two sizes? How about when you general appearance changed and you blew up to Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man proportions? Shouldn’t you have stopped and said “Hey medicine man/boxcar Willy, what this shit you’re giving me? No? Didn’t ask? Oh that’s right. Could it be because YOU KNEW EXACTLY WHAT THE FUCK YOU WERE DOING? You filthy conniving bastard. Close your mouth and stop the diarrhea that’s spewing from it.

I guess in the end though it doesn’t matter what he knew. Ignorance is not a mitigating defense. The bottom line is he took substance A. Substance A has been shown to be steroids, thus Barry Bonds took steroids. It’s as simple as that.

BONDS TOOK STERIODS. We’re moving on.

People who say thing like “Steroids don’t help you hit the ball” and “You still have to be able to play baseball” are as retarded as their arguments. If you couldn’t hit a ball or play the game you wouldn’t be in the Majors in the first place. Steroids help you recover faster which is extremely important when you are in direct competition whit people who are 15 years younger. It also helps build muscle so you can hit the ball further. Peter Gammons had this to say:

The most astounding number to come out of the Barry Bonds steroid controversy is not that 93 percent of the 40,000-plus voters on a SI.com poll don't believe Bonds' claim that he was unaware he took steroids. The more intriguing number comes from Stats Inc., which reports that Bonds had never hit a home run longer than 450 feet before the 2000 season, when he turned 36. Since then, he's hit at least 21 homers of 450 feet or farther.

No one can deny that steroids work, and work well. If they didn’t no one would take them. The downside is far too severe to risk if they weren’t extremely effective.

Bonds took steroids. By doing so he gained an unfair advantage and bolstered his numbers. So what should be done? Simple. Give him the Pete Rose Treatment. Lifetime ban. His records are expunged, he is never allowed on a field ever again, and he will not be considered for the Hall of Fame. I would also like every one of his 7 MVP awards to be taken and given to the player who finished second in voting behind Bonds. Being tarred and feathered and deported wouldn’t out of the question either.

Unfortunately what should and what will happen are two very different things. So what will happen? Nothing. I would be amazed if he even gets an asterisk next to his name in the record books.

Now all I can do is watch him hit home runs a pray that he drops dead immediately following number 713. I don’t want the most sacred record in baseball is owned by a cheater. I don’t even want him in the same discussion as Babe Ruth or Hank Aaron. I don’t want him anywhere near the game I love so much.

Nut up Selig. this mess is at least half your fault. Put on those gloves and clean up this excrement.

We are all beautiful, unique snowflakes.

2004-12-07T18:22:00.000-08:00

The other day I was thinking about people and the various shit they do. There are many behaviors that I exhibit in course of a day that I view as normal, yet could be (and often are) construed by others as inexplicably strange and at times, criminal.

I have begun to compile a list of some of those things here. If you would like, feel free to post some of the more unusual things that you do, or if you know me personally and would prefer, list some of the things I do that you find odd as I’m sure I don’t even think of many of them.

First and fore most I piss, everywhere. Literally. If I am not near a bathroom and the urge strikes me I will urinate on anything close by. I have also gone out of my way to take a leak on land marks such as the St. Louis Arch, the Sears Tower the Statue of Liberty, Central Park and the World Trade Towers (before they were destroyed) I am also minimally concerned with my surrounding as I am evacuating my bladder. Busy street? No problem. Heavy pedestrian traffic? Don’t care. Subway station? Didn’t have a choice. Day or night when I have to go I have to go. Also when I do have the luxury of using a restroom, I generally pee in the sink. That’s just who I am.

EDIT(12/10/04): I have recently been forced on numerous occasions to defend my predilection for sink urination so I will post my reasons here. It saves water and eliminates splashing. I don’t have to worry about putting the seat up and then back down to appease women and I can multi-task as I piss I can wash my hands, brush my teeth, fix my hair anything you can do in front of a mirror I can do while relieving myself. Before any of you spin off into a hygiene or sanitation agruement allow me to say that urine is sterile. There is really not a downside.

I may be the only person I know who makes decisions based on the potential for humor in any incarnation. I’m not saying that is the sole basis on which I choose but it carries much more weight than it probably should, especially in quasi-important decisions such as relationships. The other day I decided that if I ever saw a piano precariously suspended above the ground I would stand underneath it, not because I necessarily want to die but because I can think of very few things that would be more hilarious than such a fate, and how many times are you gonna get such an opportunity? Really, probably just once.

I’ll add some more later but these are probably the most prevalent.

Bouncer Haiku

2004-11-29T19:11:00.000-08:00

I've had horrible writers block so I thought I'd try this:

Its Saturday Night
I have ventured to TheBar
In order to drink

Bouncer did not show
For me, free beer and money
If I check IDs

Gladly I accept
Minimally change my plans
Drink from plastic cup

Uneventful night
Only really card hot chicks
The rest I dont care

Around 2 AM
Guy learns girlfriend is a whore
Becomes rather mad

Begins to talk shit
To some other bar patron
Shoving and yelling

Noticing scuffle
I now jump in between them
And try to calm them

My palm on ones chest
Trying to moderate but
Get punched in the face

Grab the offender
I put him in an arm-bar
And escort him out.

The tensions dissolve.
My nose left slightly bloodied
Now twice in 3 months

Hey, That was good times
It was kind of difficult
But amusing, too

I think I will stop
Now writing in Haiku form
But who really knows.

Cameron Gets Drunk, Starts Shit

2004-11-19T19:18:00.000-08:00

The other night I went out to TheBar with a few of my buddies. I had been pre-gaming at the apartment for a while and thus already had a pretty good buzz by the time we arrived. It was the usual, atmospherically subdued Saturday night. Mostly regulars a few random people. After a few beers I decided to spice up the night.

“Double shot of Jameson, Coke back.” Let’s get this party started.

I’m going to pause here and explain something to those of you who don’t know me; Jameson is my prodigal mistress. Beautiful and soft-spoken, warm and alluring, comforting, sensual. On our first meeting, I immediately fell in love with her. Our love took a turn for the worse when I discovered much to my chagrin that beneath her seductive facade she is a treacherous harridan, who desires nothing more than to beguile me into doing things I would normally avoid like a syphilitic, Taiwanese whore.

Despite my rocky relationship, like a battered wife I keep returning and even with the knowledge that no good could conceivably come of this, I continued to drink. A lot.

As the night progressed, I became more intoxicated than I realized. Judging by the reactions of others I was slurring rather badly, or speaking Sanskrit, I couldn’t really be sure in my drunken stupor, but either way, communication was breaking down rather quickly. This is always bad times as it leads me to become increasingly angry with the people around me and their inability to adapt to my new vernacular. I become electively isolated and am forced to find ways to amuse myself, and that’s when I get into trouble.

My buddy, TheBartender who knows me rather well has become an expert in recognizing the coming storm. Realizing the impending incident, he suggested that I go home. If by suggested I mean demanded. He told me he would get me a cab and pay for it. I was insulted by his insinuation that I was no longer in control and in a vain attempt to salvage the remaining shreds of my dignity, I insisted that I didn’t need his charity. I informed him that I would instead take the Brown Line home. Which would have been fine, if the Brown Line were running. Or went anywhere near my apartment. TheBartender, tired of arguing with a drunken idiot, rolled his eyes, did the responsible thing, walked me out side and hailed a cab. He shoved me into the back of the car, and gave the driver a fistful of cash and my address.

Increasingly more resentful I began grumbling and complaining, announcing that I was not an amateur but a seasoned veteran. Only I am entitled to determine when I have had enough. In order to prove this point, to no one in particular, I told the cabbie he could keep the money if he dropped me off at the after hours bar up the street. Despite the fact that I was speaking the ancient language of Drunk and his native tongue seemed to be from somewhere in the Middle East, he nodded and we proceeded to the Stop & Drink.

When I arrived and looked quizzically at the bouncer, who requested my ID, he examined me and said “Keep it under control, or you’re gone.” I slurred something at him, nodded in compliance and stumbled inside. I ordered a beer and watched passively as the haze descended upon me and the night deteriorated before my eyes.

I’m not sure exactly how it happened but I suddenly became involved in a loud argument with a man much larger then myself. When it turned into shoving, one of the bouncers, who had apparently been keeping an eye on me, intervened and escorted the both of us out of the bar.

Once outside, it would seem as if neither of us noticed the occupied cop car just down the street. Upon being released by the bouncer I hurled obscenity infused insults at the other guy. I don’t really understand my logic as I mentioned earlier that he was much larger than myself. He reacted quite unpleasantly, put his head down and charged me like a line backer making an open field tackle.

I didn’t have adequate time for my booze soaked brain to assess and react to the rapidly unfolding progression of events and this lapse allowed him to connect squarely. My lack of preparation, my intoxication and the force with which he hit me hit me caused something unimaginable to occur.

I don’t really understand the biology behind it but I immediately crapped myself.

He literally knocked the shit out of me.

Laying in a pile of my own feces I momentarily lost consciousness.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Somewhere in the distance blue and red lights flashed and unintelligible voices filled the air. My head was pounding as if there were hundreds of tiny monkeys inside of it alternately kicking my skull and my brain. Lying still, I glanced around, trying to decipher my surroundings and piece together what had just happened. One of the cops, with the assistance of a bouncer, had the other guy against the car, palms down on the hood and was patting him down. The second cop was leaning over me yelling something.

As my head began to clear I realized he was asking me to identify the rather pungent odor that was now enveloping me. I swallowed my pride and tried to explain that the surprisingly forceful impact from the other gentleman’s assult had caused my bowels to release and regretfully I had defecated upon my person, but I imagine it came out more like “I shit myself.” The cop looked doubtful and confused as he helped me to my feet. Once I was standing I could tell by the look on his face, that he now knew I was telling the truth.

After slowly backing away and consulting with his partner. I was finally allowed to “get the hell out of here.”

I waddled around the corner and hailed a cab. Getting in I mused that for once I would not be the one complaining about the odor.

SamME Sosa is a Fucking Cancer

2004-11-17T19:30:00.000-08:00

Despite the fact that the Cubs played their last game well over a month ago, here in Chicago they still dominate the headlines and talk radio, often for the wrong seasons. There is, of course, the requisite free agent rumors after the disappointing abortion of a season in which they were picked to win it all and yet couldn't even make the play-offs. Some talk about Steve Stone and his departure from the booth, but the main topic seems to be Sammy Sosa.

He spent all season whining and being a regular nuisance and attention whore. He refused to move down in the batting order despite the fact he was hitting an anemic .250 and striking out more often then he was hitting.

During the last game of the season he left before first pitch. After this his teammates were so infuriated with him that Kerry Wood smashed Sosa's club house boom box with a bat and Mark Prior demanded a public apology.

A few days ago Corky McBats returned to his native Dominican Republic and spoke to a local paper where he claimed he was mistreated and had earned the right to bat wherever he wanted. He said he would like to stay in the league long enough to hit 700 homeruns (and of course break the career strike out record in the process).

Nowhere did he mention helping a team or winning a Championship, and looking back at his career I can't ever remember him even talking about his desire for The Ring. He is a selfish bastard who is only concerned with individual accomplishments and will do anything to reach his goals. He puts him self and his sensitive ego above the rest of the team and their desire to bring a World Series to a franchise who hasn't seen one since the end of WWII.

This is the way he's always been. Cubs fans, myself included, just looked the other way. When he used a corked bat and claimed he grabbed it accidentally, we forgave him, even believed that it was an honest mistake. During the steroid controversy we all thought no, not Sammy not our team captain. Bullshit. I obviously can't say for sure weather or not he did 'roids but a guy like that would stop at nothing for personal glory. Also his suspiciously fluctuating weigh leads me to believe the rumors are true. A few years ago he had to cut slits in the sleeves of his jersey so he could fit his arms through them. Look at him now he's lost almost as much muscle as his BA has points.

He needs to be traded, I don't even care what they get, a mascot and a beer vendor seems fair. Failing that The Trib needs to go eyshawn Johnson on him, pay his contract and tell him not to show up to the games. He is a cancer, pure and simple you cannot win a title with him on your team.

They way I figure it The Cubs have a 3 year window in which to win the Series, to that end they need to build around the pitching core they have. Sign Carlos Beltran, no matter what the cost get Percival off the market of Kolb from the Brewers and then go after a lead off hitter with speed, Sorianno would be nice but Jermaine Dye would work with the re-signing of Todd Walker. Nomar needs to be given a 1 year with an option.

That's it if you can't win with that line up, you can't win, I'll accept the curse and move on with my life.

As much as I enjoyed the Red Sox victory, I couldn't help but think "That should have been the Cubs, that parade should have been here." So I'll wait, again, and hope they can finally pull it out, if Sammy's here again I'm taking a year off. You hear me Tribsters? That's it get him the fuck out of here.

Eulogy of a Season.

2004-10-17T19:05:00.000-07:00

GODDAMN CUBS.

Just when I think I'm out, they pull me back in.

The Cubs just fucked up their chance at a post season by loosing 3 in a row the Cincinnati Reds.

A few select questions seem appropriate here:

Seriously? Did I just watch this abortion of a season?
Is it that hard to beat the fucking Reds? At home? Really?

This is a fucking play off race you jack-asses!
What the fuck are you doing?
Is this Little-League? Tee-Ball? ANSWER ME!

Jesus tap-dancing Christ!
Cincinnati is a sub .500 team.
They have no pitching and a closer with a ERA over 12.
Their “offensive powerhouse” broke the NL strike out record tonight.
Are you fucking kidding me?

How could you squander 9 innings of 16 strike out, 1 run ball?
You fucking douche nozzles.

How long must this pathetic spectacle of ass-clownery continue?
Will the revolving door of suckitude EVER stop spinning?
Do you bastards even care?

I want some goddamn answers!

This season was the biggest choke in the history of Cubdom. A Sox fan who normally gives me endless shit, apologized to me. Not in a sarcastic way, in a genuine, sincere “I’m sorry they did this to you, again” way. She expressed concern and sympathy despite an entire season of rivalry and trash talking between us. That’s how bad it was. People who were here in ’69 said this season was worse. ’84? ’89? ’03? Not even close.

I turned on the radio to see if Ron Santo was still on the air knowing there was at least a 5 hance the Cubs just killed him. He was alive but the dejection in his voice was crushing. I felt nauseous. That what it's like to be a Cubs Fan. I promptly got hammered with my friends and commiserated on another in a long line of disappointing finishes.

They blew it. Pure and simple. They didn’t deserve it.

No lead off guy. No closer. A team full of power hitters and nothing else (a record of 18-38 without hitting a home run)

A 17 million dollar a year prima donna who sneezed himself from the three spot and cried all the way to a .252 average with 12 more K’s then he had hits.

Endless bitching about the pressures and media scrutiny.

Alou and Merker whining about a TV announcer? Is there anyone who has less of an effect on the game? The beer vendor is closer to the field of play.

THIS JUST IN: Alou has demanded that the Beer Guy be completely silent.

Team OBP: .328
Stolen Bases: 66
Strike outs: over 1000

This was not a play-off team.

But they were supposed to be. Everyone knew it. Preseason odds on Cubs winning it all; 8:1. By comparison, Yankees 10:1. This city was electric from Opening Day. April 5, 2004 and on. This was The Year. The Cubs arduous journey would finally be over. Chicago would have its first World Series since the end of WWII. All the pain of last season washed away. Then it came crashing down harder then ever.

Looking back it started in August. The 27 to be exact. The Cubs were at home playing the standard 2:20 pm Friday afternoon game against the Astros. The Cubs were 7 games ahead of Huston in the standings with 3 more at home they could have gained a suffocating 10 games on them. But they cracked. They fell apart. Kent Merker called the booth to whine about Chip and Steve in the middle of a game. Then he taunted the umpire and netted himself a suspension. The rest of the team folded. Collapsed. They were humiliated 15-7 and lost the next 3 of 4 games. They had the chance to end it, the didn’t do it. The gave Huston the Wild Card.

Over the next 31 games the Cubs had streaks of wins and amazing games that sucked me back in. I believed once again. Then they lost to the Expos. At home. Another great streak. Another miserable failure. It was the best and worst stretch of the season. A roller coaster of dizzying highs where you knew they could pull it out and gut wrenching lows when it seemed like they were just surrendering. By the last week of the year I was exhausted. Have you ever done that let’s break up let’s get back together dance with your girlfriend for hours and at some point you don’t even care anymore, you just want it to be over? That was the last month of this season. I just wanted it to stop I was tired of being dragged through the mud, only to be cleaned up and then promptly kicked in the sac. I was done.

Remembering they way I felt after last season, years before, and now again after this abomination of a season, I ask myself; Is it worth it? Can I really rationalize all the disappointment and anguish? If the Cubs were a girl I would have broken up with her long ago. And in the end does it even matter? Why am I living and dying, with every pitch while millionaires I don’t know play a game? Can’t I just stop caring? Can’t I find something else to do with the hundreds of hours I spend every year watching and reading and thinking and talking about something I have no control over? Can’t I just let go?

But the answer I keep arriving at is always the same.

No. I can’t.

Baseball is more than that. It’s even more than Sandberg and Grace, Harry Carry and The Seventh Inning Stretch, the Ivy and the Bricks, it’s bigger then The Cubs and their 96 year drought.

It’s Americas Past Time.

It’s Reggie and Nolan, Koufax and Gibson, Willie and Mickey, Babe and Joe D, Ty and Cy. It’s Wrigley and Fenway. Teddy Ballgame and the quest for .400.

It’s 511 wins, 59 scoreless innings, 84 straight saves, 2,632 consecutive games, and a 56 game hit streak.

It’s Sammy and Mac chasing Marris. Bonds chasing Aaron. And kids chasing a dream.

It’s Terrence Mann and The Corn Field.

It’s fathers and sons.

It a collection of memories woven into the fabrics of our lives. For me, I can pin point when it started. The 1989 World Series. The Giants and The A’s. The Bay Series. The Earthquake. An 8 year old boy sat on the couch downstairs with his dad, bet a nickel on the Giants, had his first sip of beer and listened to the stories of players he didn’t know in places he’d never seen and was suddenly aware that he was now part of something bigger. No matter what he and his dad would always have this. 4 games of the best memories of my childhood. I couldn’t turn my back on the game any more than I could on my family; it’s a part of who I am.

I’m like a hopelessly addicted crack head. I’ll follow all the trade talks make mental notes of whose available and talk with my friends about what they should do and come April, it will begin again. All the past will, at least ephemerally, wash away, The Ivy will start turning green and I’ll be right back swearing that “Next Year is Here.” My name is Cameron. I am a Cubs Fan. This is my life.

Cameron is a fucking moron, disaster (temporarily) averted.

2004-10-15T19:03:00.000-07:00

As many of you know I spent the weekend in Albuquerque. I have a rather amusing account of my travel.

My flight was scheduled to depart at 7:20 pm but I left my office at around 4:00 to avoid the rush hour cluster fuck on the train. Realizing I probably didn't need the jacket I was wearing I grabbed a backpack from my under my desk, stuffed the coat in, and headed
for the Orange Line. Unfortunately, the extra hour I allotted my self, served little purpose as the el was packed tighter then a Wrigleyville bar after a Cubs game (stupid Cubs). At one of the stops a girl in a pink jacket with a barbell through her eyebrow got on
and stood next to me. She was fairly attractive. Small frame, but a nice ass, blond hair and green eyes that glinted with mischief (read: chaos). I struck up a conversation. Her name was Erin, she was a student at DePaul and was on her way somewhere to visit someone, I don't know I kind of drifted in and out of the conversation as it was rather bland and she did little to increase my interest, she was not what I would call intelligent, but whatever, it beat staring out the window for 45 minutes.

We arrived at the airport and the hordes of people leaving the train caused me to lose her in the crowd, but I didn't really care. I lugged my suitcase up the stairs, across the moving walkway and toward the ticket line. Erin ended up behind me. We began conversing briefly before I was summoned to the next available agent. I checked in, smiled at Erin and went outside to smoke. When I was finished I wandered toward the security gate and noticed a familiar pink jacket a few people in front of me. I taped her on the shoulder and asked "are you following me?" She laughed and I suggested we get a drink before our flights, she agreed and we plodded toward the metal detectors and x-ray machines like cattle into a barn.

Having been through this farce many times before I had become an expert on expediting this ridiculous process put in place to create a false sense of security. I was ready, belt off watch and wallet in the tray, keys, cigarettes, lighter and change in my bag on the
rollers. I smiled at the security guard asked how she was and walked through the detection frame without incident. I moved to the end of the conveyor belt and
awaited my bag while I chatted with Erin. There was a delay and I looked toward the x-ray operator to see what was going on.

"John, we got something interesting here. Come take a look." I rolled my eyes as the large man sauntered over toward the viewing screen and the portly woman sitting in front of it. She pointed to something and John raised his eyebrows, put on some rubber gloves
and grabbed my bag from the machine.

"My phone charger" I remarked to Erin, shaking my head "they always think it's a bomb."

"Is this yours?" The security guard asked as he approached me.
"Yes, sir"
"May I open it?"
"Of course." I find pleasantness the best method of dealing with these people. Being standoffish only delays the procedures that are already aggravatingly time consuming.

John immediately went to the front pocket and pulled out some shoe polish

"Hey I need to get some of this, thanks for reminding me"

I forced a laugh and said "I forgot that was even in there."

He moved to the other pocket, unzipped it and pulled out my red handled butterfly knife.

"Fuck."

I turned toward Erin who had been waiting patiently behind me. Her expression was one of confusion, with a touch of fear.

"I have to go catch my plane" she said as she walked briskly away from a situation she no longer wanted any part of.

I shook my head, furious with my own stupidity.

"Can I see your boarding pass and ID?"

"Sure." I responded as I handed it over.

He walked over to a desk and made a call, all the while opening and closing the knife.

I am now officially, freaking out. Butterfly knives are illegal; attempting to carry them on a plane is even more illegal. Understand, I am not worried about going to jail so much as I am terrified at the prospect of having to call my mom to say, "Hey, I won't be in town this weekend. Nope, I got arrested for possession of a deadly weapon in an airport."
Those of you who know my mom understand this.

John the security guard begins to shoot the shit with me for a while. I am careful to seem frightened but not nervous and answer his questions appropriately. Give adequate information but don't babble. Don't use 10 words when 2 will do. Be succinct and to the point. At the same provide additional information and extrapolation when necessary don't truncate responses to open-ended questions. Most importantly make it appear that none of this careful, methodical calculation is occurring.

John is actually very calming and I think I will escape with out incident. I begin to settle down, and drop my guard a bit.

The conversation continues and I decide I will most likely be allowed to proceed to my plane, but out of the corner of my eye, I see three police officers approaching. A short, fat man with the requisite mustache, a lanky guy with a buzz cut and a woman wearing all black with a visible vest. My stomach begins to cramp. I feel ill. The fat one asks that I
turn around, I comply he grasps my forearm and I feel the distantly familiar and unmistakable cold metal crescent touch my right wrist, then clamp down. Then
the left. Shit. I turn toward the now bottlenecking crowd of people and notice a sea of faces pointing, whispering and silently judging me. I hang my head in disgust. While I am escorted down the hall John walks beside me flipping open my knife then closing it
despite the fact the he is obviously not proficient with the weapon. There is now no doubt everyone knows exactly what's going on. Thanks, dick.

I was led down the hall into the Airport Police Station where I was place in an interrogation type room, and un-cuffed. I was left alone for a moment and
called J who was picking me up at the airport in ABQ the conversation went something like this

Cameron: "Hey, there is a chance I won't make it in on time"

J: "What did you do, show up late?"

Cameron: "No, I kinda got arrested, I can't really talk but I'll keep you posted"

One of the officers returned and gave me a 2 page form to fill out, it consisted of basic questions like name address phone number, date of birth place of birth, parents names, social security number, etc, etc, etc. It was long repetitive and excruciatingly boring.

When I finished another cop entered and began interrogating me. He asked essentially the same questions that I had just answered on the form while the other guy checked it. Then came the amusing questions.

Officer: "Are you know, or have you ever been under the care of a mental health professional?"

Me: "No, sir" (again I was kissing as much ass as possible.)

Officer: "Are you involved with any of the following groups" listed off 10-15 groups I for the most part hadn't heard of mixed with a few cults and terrorist organizations

This whole fiasco took about an hour at which point the gave me my ID boarding pass and said "The weapon will be confiscated and destroyed"

Luckily because of my ridiculously early arrival, I still made my plane.

Thank god I’m white.

EDIT 10-28-04

Epilogue: As it turns out I am being fined $250 dollars for this, anyone who would like to contribute to this cause I am not proud and will accept donations. It may even be tax deductible. (Probably not)

More Cowbell!!!

2004-09-21T16:10:00.000-07:00

Babies, before we're done here you'll all be wearing gold plated diapers.

Random Musings:

Hitting a ball into the corn at the Field of Dreams may be the single greatest moment in my life thus far, if my dad were there it would have been better, but all things considered it defiantly reaches the Pantheon of Great Moments.

Until last weekend I thought a girl turning into a lesbian, twice, and then sending a text message that said "BURN IN HELL" was a sign she wanted nothing to do with me, but a note taped to my bedroom door seems to say otherwise. This kind of shit could only happen to me.

I need to stop talking to myself out loud while walking the streets of Chicago. Maybe more importantly I need to stop talking to myself out loud about my need to stop talking to myself out loud while walking the streets of Chicago. It leads to very uncomfortable moments when there is someone with in earshot.

Somewhere between 5 dollar steak and dollar draft Mondays at Lion Head, cheap everything Tuesdays at Brehon's, dollar bottle Wednesdays at Kelsey's, dollar draft and $3 jager bomb Thursdays at Hogs 'n' Honeys, Friday and Saturday night have lost some of their luster.

Confidence is descent con movie in the same vein as Oceans 11. This was further bolstered by the fact that in my drunken haze I confused Ed Burns with Ben Affleck acting with "Damnit Damon, I wanted to be in that movie, too" fervor.

I don't care what anyone says, the Indiana Jones trilogy was the high water mark for Lucas and Spielberg.

Lesson Learned: Just because the mix disguises the taste of the alcohol, doesn't necessarily make it a good idea to continue to add booze until you notice it's presence, just trust me on this one.

With fresh ideas seemingly non-existent, would this be the right time to pitch my show in which 20 women vie for the heart of a pseudo-millionaire who turns out to be a syphilitic hobo? Would anyone not watch this?

If I knew then what I know now, I would have spent everyday of my childhood learning how to throw a knuckle ball.

Rooting against the Cubs is like rooting against Christopher Reeves walking.

Living in Chicago, I sometimes forget the Mid-West is essentially a expansive collection of crops and agriculture interrupted only briefly for metropolitan areas.

One of my favorite things about a road trip is the inevitable game of "Guess the Smell." Although it is usually simple animal manure or a skunk, every once in a while you are suddenly assaulted with some undistinguishable olfactory nightmare, and while the odor may be ephemeral you know you will never be the same.

Looking on the floor of my office I realize that if you removed the name, the covers of Maxim and Playboy are essentially interchangeable.

Having a Fantasy Baseball team may make me a nerd, but having a first place Fantasy Baseball team defiantly makes me "King Nerd" and yet it still doesn't seem to impress the women as much as I think it should.

I have reached the point where not only can I pick the chaotic chick out of a bar full of people, but I can also apparently telepathically channel her to come talk to me. My buddy George can attest to this.

As far as sports go there is not a better time of year than right now. (Late September/early October)

The French Dip is the most underrated sandwich in the country, while the Turkey Club may be the most overrated.

Speaking of sandwiches: It feels like an Arby's night.

I hope the "don't wear white after Labor Day" rule doesn't apply to me because I don't do laundry often enough to be able to obey it.

It turns out that the guy who sells knock off Movados up the street from my office offers no kind of warrantee.

I can't ever remember having a bad experience with Kool-Aid.

I hate Bernie Mac and the story line looks ridiculous and trite, but I'm still going to see Mr. 3000.

My friend Tim and I have worn identical shirts on two separate occasions and I think people are starting to talk.

If there is anything more degrading than laughing at someone after they punch you in the face because you were hitting on their girlfriend and being an ass, I can't think of it.

On the Monday directly following a miraculous Bears victory over the Packers in Green Bay, if you listen closely enough you can actually hear office productivity in Chicago grinding to a halt.

In a related story: J! E! T! S! Jets! Jets! Jets! . . . that's right, bitches 2-0.

Although I am unilaterally opposed to the Starbucks Empire in its entirety and it's unyielding attempt to monopolize the worldwide coffee industry as a whole, I must say they make a damn good frapachino.

Finally, it is imperative for every group of friends to pick someone who shall from this day forth forever be referred to only as "Scrotum" I'm not suggesting it. I'm demanding it. By the way if you're studying your group of friends and no one is a clear cut candidate for this new nomenclature, well, it's you Scrotum. Enjoy!

Cameron + Drunk Chick = Mess

2004-09-08T19:08:00.000-07:00

The other night I went to a "party" at my friend’s apartment. A few girls showed up and one of them was pretty cute (read: big tits) so I began to talk/flirt with her. Her name was [Not Important] and she was a shallow, vapid, shell of a person, but with really nice tits. One direct quote that should have tipped me off "I don't eat bread because it makes me fat." In and of itself it screams self-esteem issues and possible eating disorder but also take into account that on a "fat day" there was no chance this girl came in above 105lbs. Plus she punctuated this statement by taking a swig off a beer.

In order to distract myself from the glaringly obvious character flaws, I drank as much and as fast as possible and kept a keen eye on her jovial love bubbles. After a few more torturous attempts at conversation I wished her words were somehow tangible so I could rub her nose in them and hit her with a rolled up newspaper while shouting "No! That’s a bad girl. We don’t do that in the house." I fought back the urge to verbaly berate her mercilessly as I could tell she was into me, or she was hammered, probably a little of both, so I stuck around, oh yeah did I mention her tits? They were great.

I continued to feign interest and shat out a few classic lines that always seem to get the job done and it paid off. She ended up kissing me; we went into one of the bedrooms and continued. Her tits were as good as I had figured them to be but drastically out of proportion to her waif like body. She seemed a little timid at first so I "guided" her in the right direction and she ended up going down on me, for about 30 seconds.

Not only was it one of the worst bj's I have ever received, she apparently had way to much to drink and an extraordinarily sensitive gag reflex. She pulled back let out a strange guttural, animalistic sound and puked. All over my junk. I’m gonna pause here and let that soak in. After allowing the requisite time to process the horrible turn of events. I got up, told her to go, although in a much less friendly manner, and went to the bathroom that was thankfully attached to the bedroom and hosed off. She apparently left the apartment in utter humiliation.

When I walked back out her friend asked what happened, and after I relayed the story, peppered with as many derogatory remarks and obscenities as I felt were appropriate to illustrate my frustration, she caped off the incident with 6 little words that made everything worse:

"You know she's only 16, right?"

Yes I'm a bad person, yes I need to find out age before I do things like this, but I refuse to take full responsibility for what happened. What the fuck was a 16 year old doing at a party populated by people in their early 20's? Why was she wearing a low cut spaghetti- strap shirt and skin tight pants? Why did she kiss me and give me the "fuck me" eyes? Am I entirely to blame here? Or is this a gray area like a "No-Fault" traffic accident? Look I'll be honest with you, I really don't feel guilty about this, but I feel like I probably should and that is somehow worse. Can I get a ruling here?

Jared Boyar-tano

1998-09-10T16:17:00.000-07:00

Random Links

1990-01-02T08:54:00.000-08:00

The Internet is a wonderful and mysterious place . . .

Breakdancing Transformers
That’s right
BREAKDANCING TRANSFORMERS

Red MeatThe single greatest comic in the history of print.
I will NOT argue this point.

I have no joke for this.

Mensa Test 28 out of 30, bitches.

Oddly impressive.

Yeah, it's cripple porn

Ummm. . .

Fat Chicks in Party Hats No, no you read that correctly.

Go to Google, type in "French military victories" and click on the “I'm feeling lucky” button.

How Stuff Works - self explanatory.

Not Proud - It’s like confession but without the priest. Now with 30 ess pedophilia.

I think this might be fromReno 911but it’s still pretty good.

Special Fit, - Clothing line for Adults with Down syndrome.

All Your Base Are Belong to Us

Steve, Don't Eat It! - “The entire experience is difficult to describe, but if you can remember back to the very first time you made out with a hobo's ass, it's a lot like that.”

This is disgusting. I’m warning you ahead of time. Don’t come crying to me when you can’t sleep tonight.

Jews OutKast = Hilarity

Virgin Mary in a Grilled Cheese

This is fucking awesome.

Punch-Out, Play Mike Tyson or Mr. Dream version
EDIT: use arrows to move ‘z’ for left punch and ‘x’ for right

Virtual Bubble Wrap

Ungle Booger’s Bumper Dumper

Stick Figure Death Theater

Remember Carl Lewis, the Olympic long jumper? Well here is his music video. It’s creepy and unsettling. Enjoy!

Baby Jesus Anti-Fornication Thong.

Jesus is . . .

Ding! Fries are done. Happy Holidays!

An extensive, possibly complete collection of Bud Light Real Men of Genius radio commercials

Cartoon Character Skeletal Systems, awesome.

Everyone send me money. I want thisin my apartment.

Don’t watch this if you’re a pussy.

1990-01-01T10:00:00.008-08:00

Finger

1990-01-01T10:00:00.007-08:00

Thanksgiving

1990-01-01T10:00:00.006-08:00

Corvett

Before

1990-01-01T10:00:00.005-08:00

before

1990-01-01T10:00:00.004-08:00

karaoke

1990-01-01T10:00:00.003-08:00

halloween

1990-01-01T10:00:00.002-08:00

field of dreams

1990-01-01T10:00:00.001-08:00

Hand

1990-01-01T10:00:00.000-08:00

after