Monday, May 11, 2009

So Shrek Walks Into A Bar

By now it’s well-documented that I don’t care much for people. I’m kind of like Shrek before he mellowed out faster than REO Speedwagon. Or Bryan Adams. Or Aerosmith. You get the idea. So normally once I leave work my goal is to make it home to the nurturing bosom of the home swamp with the least amount of interaction. I’d probably even walk right past Crystal Bernard.

Speaking of walking right past people, I was at Wrigley Field about a week ago (technically the patio of a bar across the street from Wrigley) before a Friday afternoon game and Denise Richards walked right by on the sidewalk. She was being followed by a camera crew and drew hoots and cheers from the crowd on the patio. The following are my thoughts, in chronological order:

Wow, she’s short.
Wow, she’s wearing a ton of makeup. What’s she hiding? (I learned that from Moist.)
It looks like rain – I really should have brought my slicker.
Wait, why is she famous? Besides having a public divorce from… Charlie Sheen, maybe?
I’m so going to order a hot dog when I get into the stadium.
Why are people cheering for her? Oh, right, I’m at Wrigley Field.
What the hell am I doing at Wrigley Field?
She certainly was short.

But I digress. So I don’t like people, Shrek, getting home…

I live upstairs from my landlords. They’re generally pretty cool, but if I’m walking past Crystal Bernard I’m certainly not in the mood for small talk with them. As I come into our foyer I note that their door is open, which means they are likely on their way out and I need to hustle in my own door to avoid any dreaded interactions. I whip open my door and I’m greeting by their 5 year old and their 3 year old sliding head first down the steps at my feet. Argh! Not only that but their mom is standing at the top of our steps. I briefly considered saying, “Sorry, wrong house,” and then walking around the block until the chaos cleared but I had already been recognized. I tiptoed around the ankle-biters, made pleasantries with their mom, and collapsed upon the couch.

I almost felt bad when I found out the reason they were there was to deliver some fresh out of the oven chocolate chip cookies. I wonder if some small talk will get me another half dozen.

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

Ride On

The weather this week finally warmed up and dried up enough to get my pansy ass back on my bicycle. After a few good rides on the weekend I saddled up for a couple commutes to work this week. I love the smell of carbon monoxide in the morning!

While it’s good for my general well-being, the fact that both days were rather uneventful makes for a rather boring post. My closest call was a near sideswipe at the corner of Western and Lawrence on Monday by an asswipe in a Suburban participating in what some of us call a Chicago drag race. It happens when a two-lane road temporarily opens up into four lanes near an intersection to accommodate a bus stop. If no bus is present, certain people who feel their time is much more important than everyone else’s (probably doctors on their way to deliver a baby or some dude racing to get ½ price appetizers at Bennigan’s) will pull into the right lane, wait for the light to turn green, then floor it to get ahead of everyone else and merge back into the left lane before it funnels back down to two lanes. Taxis are most guilty of this practice, but it’s not uncommon for the common asshole to do this as well.

Unfortunately for them, we cyclists tend to hang out in the right lane as well, mostly in an effort to avoid death or serious injury, which is nothing but an annoyance to these jagoffs. Most of the time they have enough brain cells to realize that getting a biker tangled up in their axle will slow them down even more, and they usually capitulate by just squeezing in where they can while yelling something obscene about my pansy ass or my mother as they pass. But the dude in the Suburban took my presence as a challenge and managed to railroad me into the gutter to complete his mission of arriving at the next traffic light ahead of everyone else.

No big deal – I might not have even mentioned it but tonight I was sitting at the same intersection, waiting for the light, and as I’m crossing the intersection another flippin’ Suburban does the same damn thing. Not quite as close as the previous day, but I’m beginning to wonder if I did something to piss off the Piece Of Shit Suburban Owners Association.

I usually ride to work in some baggy mountain bike shorts and a t-shirt and stash my work clothes in a bag on my rear rack. I get to work, cool down and drink a shake, while my personal valet Mr. French lays out my clothes in the storage closet where I change into my generic white businessman uniform.

However, today, Mr. French came out looking very confused as I had apparently forgotten to pack my underwear. Being a good man-servant, he offered me his but there was no way I was going to drop my boys into his generic white boxers from the Sears Roebuck catalog. Instead I would need to go commando. It did not seem like it would be a problem as long as I didn’t split my pants, forget to zip up, or receive a surprise visit from Shania Twain.

It was a little awkward at first, but after a couple hours I had happily settled into my freeballin’ lifestyle. For eight hours I mostly stayed behind my desk, zipped and unzipped with the utmost care during bathroom breaks, and for the most part avoided dirty thoughts. As much as a guy can.

Rain tomorrow, so no bike riding. I’ll probably wear underwear. And Suburban drivers will need to find a new target for the day.

Bonus Feature – Sexist Sid

The only funnier thing than watching a women trying to parallel park is watching a woman trying to parallel park while talking on her cell phone.

Bonus Feature – Sports Night

People who sing the National Anthem are pretty much guaranteed a standing ovation.