Monthly Archives: March 2010

Corpus Delicti

I don’t know if it was the sound of the door closing that rustled me out of my slumber, the overwhelming odor of cleaning products or the amount of ugly that had just penetrated my twenty foot ugly-free zone. Either way, I was now staring at the ugliest person ever to walk on two feet. She

looked like a Aye-Aye who had gotten into with mommy’s make-up. I tried my best to look away, but it was futile, as I kept finding myself looking back at her to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. Now, I know I’m no Tom Brady or Hugh Jackman and I’m not trying to be a dick, but how could anyone be this ugly? I mean, her body was great, but the ugly sitting on top of it could be felt by worms two feet underground. No shit.

I felt like crying, really. And as I was trying to find something to cover myself with, she was saying something to me about her car and Carol’s Pub, as she placed my freshly dry cleaned suit over the back of the other, matching lounge chair. Then, as suddenly as the ugly appeared, it walked (on two feet) right out the door.

Needless to say, I had no idea where I was or how I got there, but I had to get out of there asap, lest she might come back and do to me again whatever she did to me last night. Unfortunately, my body felt like it had just completed a triathlon and a tough man contest the night before, and oh, did I mention that I was completely naked? That said, fear took over and I stood up to survey my surroundings. It was a something out of a German interior design magazine, and after looking out of the living room window, I determined that I was somewhere within a few blocks of the Hancock, about 15-20 stories high.

Not having any answers to the obvious questions I had, I felt that at least taking a quick shower would ease my mind. But, I didn’t feel “dirty”. I mean, I didn’t feel like one normally should after waking up naked in a strange place. So, I scratched and smelled a few vital body parts and all I could smell was nothing. But I should have at least smelled like booze. This may sound weird, but now I was getting worried. Was there an attempt to clean up evidence? Those Europeans are known to get freaky, right? That was a woman, right?

As I was snooping around to see if I could find some mail or maybe some clues of some sort, I came across a bedroom, which had a full-length mirror. No bruises, check. No scratches, check. No needle marks, check. No new tattoos, check. Asshole intact and no signs of activity, check. Then I thought it might be a good idea to find my cell phone and check out my call log, but before that thought was completed I thought about cell phone cameras, then I thought that maybe I should check this place for cameras and brace myself for viral fame. No obvious cameras, check. After a few more minutes, I found my watch, wallet, keys and my laptop bag on the kitchen table, neatly organized, with my Cole Hahn’s looking like they had a fresh polish, sitting on the table, on top of this week’s Chicago Reader… Weird added to existing weird.

Time was critical, so I got dressed and made my way to the door, when I heard a woman’s voice coming from the hallway. No, no, no, no! Hmph, there’s no way I was going to sneak out of there using a back door that didn’t exist and I’m not Peter Parker, so I had to man-up and escape by using the elevator and possibly find myself face-to-face with the Great Ugly. My heart rate had skyrocketed high enough to fuel five Olympians and I gave some serious thought to hiding under a bed, but then the idea of claiming to be married or gay sounded like a good idea.

Luckily, after realizing that the door had a peephole, I saw that the voice was coming from a housekeeper and I made it to the elevator and out of the building without incident. Once outside, I quickly scanned the sidewalk for people quickly looking away from a woman, but everything seemed normal, as much as normal could on this morning.  At this point, I knew how criminals feel when they have to judge whether to calmly walk or run down the street immediately after committing a dastardly deed. Trust me, it’s a tough choice.

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Easter has been cancelled

GRANGER TWP. — Just when things started to look even the slightest bit better for millions of Americans, the Medina County Sheriff’s Office today reported that the Easter Bunny has died from injuries sustained in a suspicious one car accident. According to police reports, the 400 year old Easter Bunny was struck from behind while on his morning run. Family and friends have told the Associated Press that he had discussed retiring after this year’s holiday, but wanted to make sure he was in shape to complete everything one last time.

Around 7:50 a.m., the Medina County Sheriff’s Office was notified of the incident, which occurred on Route 11, just north of State Road 45. Sgt. Robert Sanders, public information officer for the Medina County Department of Public Safety, said that investigators have been told by the driver and passengers of the 2009 Range Rover, that they were in a rush to get to the early service at a church in nearby Lebanon, when they accidently struck the Easter Bunny.

The driver, Reverend L.T. Thomas of Chicago, has a long running feud with many holiday icons and Super Hero’s. In 2003, Thomas was arrested in Palm Springs while trying to scale the security wall at the Cheateau de Connerie, a popular getaway of Santa Claus, Cupid, AquaMan, Pepita and Rod Blagojevich. In 2004, Thomas was charged with trespassing when he attempted to dislodge a giant pickle from a float at the annual St. Joe Pickle Fest in St. Joe, Indiana. In 2007, Thomas was arrested while protesting Santa Claus at the Marshall Field’s State Street Holiday Window Display.

“Right now, we’re trying to determine if this is an accident or something that was done intentionally,” Sanders said.

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mea culpa

For some reason I can’t explain, I’ve recently had an urge to apologize to some of the people I’ve messed with over the past twenty or so years. No, it’s not part of a twelve-step program or anything of the sort. It’s just a few poor bastards who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

> To the girls who left their camera in my friend’s car after a party back in the day and I took the liberty of taking a few very… um…. candid shots. I’m sorry. I’m sorry the camera ran out of film.

> To the uber large, steroid-eating, shot-putting freak who lived in Erickson Hall that I sent into ‘roid rages every time after I prank called him after me and my buddy’s came home drunk each weekend. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I don’t remember your name or I would still be doing it.

> To the guy whose shoes I stole while he was passed out on the lobby couch at the Holiday Inn in Janesville, WI. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t take my girlfriend’s lipstick, eye shadow and mascara, and make you look like a tranny. You would have had a much better story to tell your friends twenty years later.

> To the dude on the L back in ’92 who had obvious issues with people touching him, even ever so slightly. I’m sorry for sitting next to you and making a point of exaggerating my lean every time we took a curve and tapping you on your arm and asking you for help with the NY Times crossword, making you howl like a dog and claw yourself. I’m sorry I didn’t get that on tape.

> To the Eagle Brook Country Club for peeing in your pool. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t have diarrhea.

Ok, I feel much better now that I got that off my chest.

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Rock Star

Well, maybe he is the Jimmy Page of Italy, but he’s still just playing an accordion. Check it out around the 5:00 mark, what a Rock Star. (yes, i watched the entire clip)

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Chingon

I was watching a cooking show about pre-Hispanic cooking. The point of the show was that native people in parts of Mexico, Central and South America still practice Pre-Hispanic cooking. They covered four or five very remote villages, filmed the people planting and harvesting the food and cooking it, all with old, passionate, folk music playing in the background.

Then, fifty minutes into the show, when it came time to eat the food in their quaint, little mud brick home (which is a five day donkey ride from civilization), complete with chickens running all over the place and original Aztec drawings still on the wall, the old men were drinking Coronas with their dinner. I’m not making this up.

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