No…Not….WINTER!!!

OUR WORLD:

Whoever came up with the term “Winter Wonderland” never lived full-time in a cold-weather city. (Did you look that up? So, you don’t know. Please don’t lie to your readers, Jimmy.) Winter in a cold-weather city is a nightmare filled lined with salt stains, dry skin and wet socks that is only mitigated by the fact that it becomes socially acceptable to eat more. For my Chicago brethren, this morning is the first time this year where I woke up cold, saw a bunch of bare tree branches and started tremble-crying that “it’s puffy coat time….” Then the VP woke up and asked why I was crying but I was just welling up, which is different than crying and she just doesn’t understand because her winter coat doesn’t make her look like a Michelin Man EVEN WHEN I’M DOING WELL WITH DIET AND EXERCISE! YEAH, I COULD BUY A DIFFERENT COAT, BUT I’D RATHER SAVE MY MONEY FOR ALCOHOL AND GAMBLING AND GOING OUT TO DINNERS!!!! No, none of this happened, but the point is that it could because the older I get, the worse I get at containing my emotions re: winter. Here are the top 3 worst things people in Chicago are dreading about winter:

Walking through slush while wearing your sporty no-show lil’ baby socks.

You wake up in early December and it snowed a little bit last night. Nothing crazy. In fact, when you look out your window you say something “oh, not that bad.” So you’re in that “this sucks, but it could suck harder”-winter-purgatory that feels almost like happiness. You get ready for your day and pack your gym bag. But when you get to the sock portion of ready-time, an option presents itself: do I wear my big, hot, winter socks AND pack my no-show lil’ baby socks for the gym? OR! Do I just wear my I-don’t-have-cankles-and-these-lil-socks-prove-it socks for the day so I get to the gym ready to go and I don’t add to my mounting laundry pile with another pair of socks? You go with one pair of socks because it’s “not that bad” out and if you’re forced to add 2 more socks to that laundry pile, it may tip over and bury you alive before your wife realizes that she hasn’t been asked “can I put sports on?” for over 18 minutes. Yeah, you just died in a pile of dirty clothes and now your wife is going to jail because how could she not know?

So you put your no-show socks on slide into those cool boots that your Mom got you last Christmas. It’s not that bad, you’re fine. By the time you hit the bottom of the stairs on your way out, you’ve totally forgotten that whole excruciating sock decision you just had to make. The podcast you’re going to listen to is queued up on your phone for the drive to work, and you’re damn near excited to hear if Bill Simmons will ask Jonah Hill the deal with his weight fluctuations. You toss your gym bag in the passenger seat and…fuck. Right as you step off the curb, your foot is wet. The snow didn’t look that bad because it melted, and your body weight caused a splash when it landed on the street. Tiny-brain you didn’t tie your boots that tight so the splash fell inside your boot and found its resting place all over your tiny-sock-covered foot. Cool. Now you’re Wally Wetfoot and you better tie that boot tight because you know the thing about wet feet? They STINK. Good luck trying to hide that stank foot in an office surrounded by people who don’t have a villainous pile of laundry forcing them into bad decisions.

Bundling up before taking your dog out and catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror by your door.

You’re lying if you tell me there’s not one second every winter, while getting yourself and your dog ready to go outside, that you don’t remember when you didn’t have a dog and think “that was a happier time.” Don’t even try to tell me that when it’s negative 9 and you hear the wind howling, you’re not mean-squinting at your dog hoping he’ll be like “you know what, I can hold it.” But whatever, dogs rule so you when you’re done putting their booties on to protect from the salt, you bundle up like you may get locked out and have to sleep in the snow. Puffy coat, itchy scarf, old Bears hat, and the camouflage gloves you bought with your brothers at a gas station in Michigan. Originally, you bought those gloves as a joke, but now they’re just your gloves and your wife can’t believe that she picked you.

When you’re done tucking your loose sweatpants into your boots, you grab the leash and march towards the tundra. Unfortunately, your wife likes hanging mirrors near doors. At first you thought it was just coincidence, but now you’re wondering if these mirror placements were part of a more sinister plan to prey on your insecurities. Said mirror grabs the corner of your eye and you take a quick glance to see how you lo—JESUS, I’M UGLY! Aside from the winter fat suit, the parts of your face that you can see are white pale mixed with little dry patches (thanks freezing wind!). Moisturizing is a way of life that you must commit to, and it’s never been more obvious. Like being hit with a wave from the ocean, you’re forced to go through every part of your last 6 meals. When was the last time you went to the gym? Yeah, you went, but did you even try that hard? Or did you just go to say you went? And, shit, you’ve been digging those dark beers lately. And the outfit? You’re not better than the Jordan Brand Cincinnati sweatpants you bought in High School? You’re really not better than that?

“I’m better than this,” you say to your wife as you head out. She smiles. You’re gonna change.

Once you’re outside, she calls her Mom. “I’m coming home.”

Going to a Mexican restaurant and ordering a margarita to play pretend summertime only to come crashing back to reality the second you look out the window and see the look of pure terror on the driver that has lost control of their car while skidding on the ice.

Once late-January hits, you’re about to snap. Two-plus months of frigid temperatures and short days have taken their toll, so you excitedly make a plan to go to a Mexican restaurant for a little “Let’s pretend it’s hot outside!”-meal. It’s different than the norm and your spouse is like “he’s full of surprises!” You’re proud of your ingenuity. It’s cute, guys. So cute. You know what’ll make it even cuter? Toss a hawaiian shirt and sunglasses on! Can you say “Summer in January”?!?!?!

At the restaurant, the servers are kinda’ annoyed with how cute of a couple they’re waiting on, which makes you even more proud of your SAH KEWT plan. You order drinks and not just drinks; we’re talking margaritas with extra salt baby. Nothing spells summer like salt, tequila and limey sugary shit! While you wait for Señor AnnoyedWithYourCuteness to get your drinks, it’s time to start reminiscing about awesome summer stories. Remember that time you went on the boat and jammed out to pre-nutso Kanye jams? Oh oh oh, how ’bout the time you had a picnic at the beach and made fun of the uncoordinated volleyball player ruining it for the rest of his team?!?! And, guys, ‘member the time you grilled those burgs and made everyone address you as General Grillmaster for the rest of the night? You’re laughing. Reminiscing. Dreaming, perhaps. The margaritas arrive and it looks like each crystal of salt was placed by hand around the rim of your glass. You do a cheers but don’t actually touch glasses because you want ALL the salt. Then you hear a screech.

Your eyes dart to the window and see that the snow has picked up and a 1993 Dodge Neon is skidding past the stop sign right outside. It’s not an emergency, but you lock eyes with the driver and share the “shit, there’s nothing you can do”-look. The Neon hits the curb and is fine; it’s a piece of shit anyway, so another dent on the bumper will blend. But it snapped you out of your summer fantasy. Your spouse knows it too. Now it’s a waiting game to see who’s going to ask the question you’re both thinking first…”You know we still have like 3 months of this shit?”

YEAH, I KNOW!

MY WORLD:

When I’m not writing this blog in the morning, I’m trying to work on a script and it’s really difficult guys! In film school, I was only able to write shitty scripts AND I COULD WORK ON THOSE ALL DAY, EVERYDAY. Now, I’m writing before work and…oooooo momma, I’m having trouble. Turns out that coming up with a totally original movie idea is not something you can do just because you…uh…want to do it. The first “assignment” I have due with my writing comrade is due tomorrow and I’m about 20% of the way done with it, so yeah, I’m stressed.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Realizing that the reason political ads are the way they are, is because THEY WORK.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Saw her perform on SNL and, ladies and gentlemen, we have a NEW CRUSH ALERT!!!!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

As you know, I had been on an epic losing streak. We’re talking the kind that you would tell your grandchildren about when they ask why you live in such a shitty part of town 45 years from now. Then, Sunday happened. Guys…I hit a 4-team parlay and it felt like I, personally, defeated ISIS and saved humanity from their reign of terror. The VP did not share my level of excitement, but she did hit me with a semi-genuine “oh, yay!” So that was nice. Did I squander some of my winnings by then betting on the Packers moneyline because my friend is a Packers fan and I’m a great great great friend? Yes, I did, but I also cemented my status as a “great great great friend” in the process. So, as far as I can tell, that’s pretty much breaking even. I told a few people yesterday to bet on the Titans moneyline and then forgot to place that bet myself, so…that was fucking annoying. Probably gonna take tonight off to watch voting results while praying the Republicans takes that much deserved L.

(My account is currently at $100.72)

K bye.

How I Actually Hurt My Ankle & “The Bachelorette” Finally Ended!

MY WORLD:

Do you remember when you were younger and the rough-housing you were doing with your siblings or friends came to an abrupt end when one of you got ACTUALLY hurt? No one questioned how you got hurt because you were always surrounded by people who saw you smash your face into a hammock pole while running a post route in your friend’s front yard. One second you’re all laughing, the next, you’re flat on your back with a panicked look, while saying “help, help, help, help.” Reminiscing about those “help, help, help, help” moments is hysterical, until you find yourself on your back again. Only this time, it’s in a Chicago alley at 11:30 PM and you’re saying those words to your dog; who’s more interested in that bag under the dumpster next to you. As I have come to find out since late Saturday night, when I took my numbah one pretty gurl for what should have been a nondescript walk, the difference between childhood and adulthood injuries is stark; childhood injuries are funny, adulthood injuries are suspicious.

I took Belle for a walk on Saturday night, stepped in a pothole in the middle of an alley we were walking down, and destroyed my ankle. That’s it! That’s the story! (I’ve never trusted these “pothole” stories). I crumpled to the ground, not knowing exactly what happened, aside from the fact that my right ankle felt like it exploded, and laid on my back trying not to cry. (If anyone has video of this, I’m sure it would go viral. “ManBaby almost cries alone on back in alley.”) Belle was sweet and kinda sniffed my face while also being like “dang that sucks ’bout yo leg, but lemme check out what’s under this dumpster!” I get it, dumpster searches and barking at minorities are Belle’s top priorities.

After hobbling up to my apartment, three flights of stairs that felt like ten billion flights of nail-crusted stairs, I told The VP that my ankle was dead. DEAD. DONEZO. FINISHED! She helped lay me down on our stupid, shitty couch that we took from our friend’s trash pile 2 years ago (not a joke) and got me long socks to wrap my grapefruit of an ankle with. Why socks? BECAUSE WE’RE THE ONLY ADULTS IN THE WORLD WHO DIDN’T HAVE A GODDAMN ACE BANDAGE IN THEIR HOUSE. Anyway, with my ankle wrapped in my V fashionable Nike knee socks, I started contemplating what the next few days were going to entail: constant leg pain, an obnoxious trip to a nearby x-ray room, and, most importantly, having to convince everyone that this wasn’t a “Jimmy was hammered drunk and did this”-incident. I could already hear the people in my head responding to the pothole story with “yeah, but what really happened?” I STEPPED IN A POTHOLE. THAT’S IT! (Pretty defensive IMVHO)

Now, I won’t lie, was I totally, completely sober? No, I was not. GOD FOR-FUCKING-BID I ENJOY AN OFF-DAY WITH A FEW ADULT BEVERAGES!!! I was a few beers deep when I took Belle on this fateful walk, but it’s not like I was challenging people to race me down a fire escape after my 14th shot of “whatever’s cheapest”-Tequila. First off, I don’t even really like tequila, so that’s hole number one in your “you had to be smashed argument”. (I do like margaritas, but we’re talking shot-wise here, folks. STAY FOCUSED!) Second! Wouldn’t you think I could come up with a cooler sounding story than “I stepped in a pothole” if I was actually trying to hide the fact that it was a drunken escapade gone wrong? I’m a writer (amateur) for chrissake! But still, the first two friends I texted about my injury replied with, essentially, the same responses: “how drunk were you?” There wasn’t a “oh, that sucks, I’m sorry,” or “ouch!” or “let me know if I can help while you’re UNABLE TO WALK AND PERFORM BASIC HUMAN FUNCTIONS.” NOPE! JUST BLATANT DISTRUST OF THE BACKGROUND SURROUNDING MY INJURY. BLATANT. DISTRUST.

Therfore, since it has become apparent that my “friends” will not believe the “ACTUAL STORY” regardless, I would like to put forth another scenario in which my ankle may have gotten injured…I will leave it up to the reader to decide how my ankle actually became the size of a grapefruit:

The Second Dunk Attempt Story:

So The VP and I were walking back home following a lovely meal we had just enjoyed at a local Italian eatery. Naturally, I had a salad and water because I don’t eat food for enjoyment, I simply eat for sustenance. You don’t put unleaded into a diesel engine, nah’mean? During our stroll, we encountered some local ruffians whistling and hooting and hollering at my lovely wife. Being the secure, masculine man that I am, I simply smiled and waved, as if to say “thank you, I agree.” Unfortunately, however, a member of said ruffian group, named Burt, misinterpreted my gratitude and decided to confront me.

“Think you’re better than me?” Asked the menacing Burt.

“Sir, what is your name? I would like to address you properly,” I responded as The VP attempted to pull me and my huge torso muscles in the opposite direction.

“My name is Burt,” he said–which is when I knew “this guy’s name is Burt.”

“Hi Burt, my name is Jimmy, I’m not sure if I’m better than you. However, I certainly was not meaning to imply that with my wave and toothy, picturesque smile. To be honest, I might be better than you at some things, but worse than you at others. If we spend the time tallying up everything, well, Burt, that would take days.”

“I’m talking about that,” Burt said as he pointed to the nearby basketball court.

Following some negotiation, Burt and I decided that we would decide who was better at dunking a basketball. The VP, never having seen me dunk before because I’m humble and don’t like to show off, pleaded with me to “just let it go.” But I couldn’t let it go; not with my wife’s honor at stake. So I tied my casual, yet fashionable Levi’s loafers extra tight and followed Burt to the basketball court.

Using the manners that my parents taught me when I was a young boy, I allowed Burt to go first. Burt grabbed the ball from one of his ruffian friends, pounded it twice on the ground to show that he was strong and ran towards to hoop. As he took off, he put the ball in his right hand and began a tomahawk-like motion as he neared the rim. His legs splaying through the air, he whipped the ball forward and…right into the front of the rim. Failure washed over Burt’s face as he landed. He missed his dunk and, even worse, pulled away from me when I tried to console him.

Now it was my turn. Unfortunately for you, the reader, I don’t want to get into too many details regarding my dunk because I’m so humble, but let’s just say it was a 360 windmill between the legs that left the ruffians stunned and my wife so proud that she immediately called her Mom to revel in what an amazing athlete she had married. But I don’t want to get into it further than that.

“Beginners luck!” Burt snarled as he whipped the basketball into my chest. “Do it again, or I won’t admit that you’re better than me at dunking!”

Not wanting to highlight Burt’s lack of intelligence by dispelling the faulty notion of “beginner’s luck,” I obliged his infantile request. However this time, while gliding through the air like a Peregrine Falcon approaching his unsuspecting prey, I noticed Burt sticking his leg under the basket, directly where my right foot would land post-awe-inspiring-dunk numero dos. Thankfully, my eye-body coordination is so stunningly fast, that I was able to adjust my landing immediately after throwing down yet another rim-rattling 360 windmill between the legs dunk.

Once landed, with my right foot narrowly missing Burt’s maliciously placed leg, I didn’t say anything to his now despondent-looking face. Instead, I simply winked at him and then blew a kiss to my adoring wife. That’s when Burt took the handgun out from his waistband and pistol-whipped my right ankle.

And that’s how my ankle got hurt.

OUR WORLD:

Last night, this season of “The Bachelorette” came to a merciful end after a 3 hour show that included about 6 minutes of interesting television: when Blake almost had a heat stroke while getting dumped, and when Garrett tried to explain that Instagram’s “Like” feature is too complicated for him to grasp. We can all agree that this season sucked because Becca has the personality of a plastic spork, and the only guy with charisma, Jordan, was probably a paid actor. So we move on and hope that next season they make Chad “The Bachelor”. But there is one thing that stuck with me throughout last night’s episode, that I just can’t shake…Chris Harrison SUCKS.

How is it that someone with no discernible talent becomes the face of the most popular television franchise on ABC? I understand the need to cast a “straight man” opposite some outlandish character in a buddy comedy, but why cast one to host an ultimately, mean-spirited reality dating show? When Blake came out last night and everyone was watching how sad he was about getting dumped in front of a gajillion people, Chris could’ve cut the tension with a little joke, or asked an insightful question about where he goes from here, or….ANYTHING OTHER THAN ASK “HOW DOES WATCHING THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?” That’s the question that people without functioning brains are wondering. “Hey Blake, when you watch that time you got kicked in the nuts while wearing a suit in 120 degree heat, does that make you feel good?”

Remember too, that this episode is Chris Harrison’s chance to shine. It’s the Super Bowl of his season where he is one of the main characters in the show and he comes to the table with the “how did that make you feel?”-question?!?! An ABC executive should have come out on stage at that very moment and stapled an oversized dunce cap to his dumb head while informing him that he has been sentenced to life in prison for “being a horribly stupid dating show host.” NO POSSIBILITY FOR PAROLE!

Quickly, here are my top 5 suggestions for people to replace Chris Harrison:

Dave Chappelle
Amy Schumer
Dr. Phil
O.J. Simpson
Barack Obama

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My Mom posted a video about this dog on Facebook a few days ago and he’s now my second (maybe even first) favorite dog in the world.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Chris Harrison.

JIMMY GAMBLES…

I’M AT $0 AFTER THE CUBS WON BY 2 LAST NIGHT EVEN THOUGH I BET THEM TO WIN BY 3-4. COOL GUYS!

K bye.

Common Drunk Mistakes and Not Going to the Gym (7/10/18)

OUR WORLD:

I didn’t drink yesterday! I’m planning to not drink today too!!! (Planning is an interesting word, Jimmy). Sobriety is one slippery serpent around summer holidays (and stressful workweeks, and Fridays, and Saturdays, and winter holidays, and football Sundays, and…people I work with/for may be reading this so GIVE IT A REST, PAL!) but that mutant Wednesday holiday was a real jolt to my drinking equilibrium. Is anyone REALLY mad if we just start celebrating Independence Day on the first Friday in July? Lets give everyone a 3 day weekend and cool it with the midweek hangover. Am I the only one who felt like last Wednesday was a test? Paranoid-Jimmy sensed judgmental bitches out in FORCE on Thursday, taking stock of everyone wearing sunglasses and eating McDonald’s out of paper bags in their cars while parked outside suburban dialysis centers (you just got too specific there, Jimmy. They know it’s you now). I could almost hear these people saying “I guess SOMEBODY couldn’t control themselves on a midweek holiday. REVOKE HIS ADULTHOOD CARD!” Before I go off into a real tangent, I would like to propose that all McDonald’s drive-thru attendants begin each order by telling the person in the car that “everything is going to be okay. Now, what can I get you?” The amount of anxiety those simple words would help ease in the world could lead to the end of anti-depressants ALL TOGETHER. Exaggeration? Well duh, but how many people going through the McDonald’s drive thru are really just searching for someone to tell them that “everything is going to be okay”? My educated guess would be 100%.

Now, to the issue at hand. Over the past week-ish, through observing and participating in some alcohol-fueled escapades, I’ve begun assembling a list of mistakes that all of us drinking folk make time after time after time. We’ll tell ourselves that we’re going to make sure we do this or make sure we don’t do that, and then we have beers and shots and FUN and start thinking “EVERYONE LOVES EVERYTHING I DO!” They don’t. My initial goal of this piece was to help us to learn and better ourselves, but I’m no fool. For the vast majority of us, this may simply be a therapeutic exercise in communal immaturity. Here are the drunk-person mistakes that all us drinkers make and will continue to make because drinking impairs our decision-making abilities. Or, as I like to call it, the first edition of the “Oh, I’m not the only who gets drunk and”-list of missteps.

Makes extravagant plans with friends about “finally putting a group trip together!” only to never talk about that trip until the next time you’re all very drunk.

I’ve agreed no less than 28 times to start planning a group trip to Michigan or Wisconsin or some other moderately priced, drive-able location while out drinking with friends. It always happens when someone in the group just got back from a trip. They have a tan and are happier/less stressed than normal because they just returned from “a relaxing few days.” Everyone around them is jealous and saying things like “but I wanna!” to their significant others. Natural progression includes the person who just returned from vacay proposing that the whole group goes to where they just were. “Yay!” is usually what I think and ALWAYS what the VP actually says out loud. Aside from the two friends at the bar thinking they’re taking “secret” shots even though everyone can see them, everyone agrees that this trip is something that MUST happen.

This is when trouble begins to arise. Who is going to take the lead on planning this? NOBODY in the entire universe wants that responsibility. Hey Friendo, when you’re done with work and walking your dog and paying your bills and cooking your dinner and doing your laundry and parking on the street in the city and going to the gym and apologizing to your wife for losing the iPhone charger, would you mind corralling a group of functioning alcoholics to all agree on which weekend they should all spend more than really want to, to go to some place in Wisconsin they haven’t been since they were children? TYSM!!!

So what ends up happening is…uh….nothing. And most of the time, honestly, I’m relieved. I have heard of people going on their phones while IN the bar and making reservations THAT NIGHT. While I applaud the immediate follow-through, I’ve gotta admit that if I were part of that group I would IMMEDIATELY start thinking of potential excuses to drop a week before the actual trip. Yes, friend trips are fun, but agreeing to spend a bunch of money while you’re already drunk and already spending a bunch of money at the bar? Folks, that right there is the origin story of most panic attacks for 30 year olds (surprised you didn’t know that. Also, if you’re over 30, like me, referring to yourself as a “30 year old” is a nice cheat-code to feel younger.)

Orders shots for all the people you’re with and immediately regrets having to pay $48 for 6 Fireball shots and a sure-fire hangover.

I love thinking about how shots must’ve been invented. You know some drunk guy named Terry was out one night thinking “I love drinking beer, but I want to get drunk faster. Liquor? Yeah, but I hate the taste. What if…someone could like shoot something into my mouth REAL quick to get me drunk and I could go back to drinking beer? SHOTS!” Once Terry’s friend, Lorenzo, heard of this idea he joined in the fray and asked the bartender to just add a bunch of sugar to his “shot” to also help mask the taste. Said bartender then, one late night, tired of feeling like candy dealer, put on a bowtie, grew a mustache and invented simple syrup. “It’s actually not sugar, it’s a cocktail ingredient known as simple syrup,” said the first ever douchey Mixologist. Boom, I just gave you the evolution of alcohol. (I have done no research into that, but I don’t want to know if it’s wrong. I don’t care what anyone says. No chance someone other than a dude named Terry invented shots. NOW GET BACK TO THE FUCKING POINT, JIMMY!)

The point is that now, age thirty tuoeiwe, shots are but an illicit daydream while out at the bar with friends. No one is really going to ask the crew if they WANT shots because nobody wants to be met with the “you have a problem, don’t you?”-looks. The way around this, however, is to just show up to the table with a tray of shots. It’s a risky move because the majority of the table is going to be pseudo-pissed at you, but that’ll fade. The people that are excited, though, will think of you as their Dark Knight of fireball for allowing them to use the “it would be rude NOT to take this”-excuse. In the words of Chief Gordon, the Dark Knight of Fireball endures the ridicule “Because he can take it, because he’s not a hero. He’s a silent guardian, a watchful protector, a Dark Knight.”

Are you, like me, one of these Dark Knights of Fireball? Let’s talk. Like me, I bet you told yourself before going out “no shots tonight.” I bet once you got to the bar and had a few POPS you started laughing and having an absolute ball. You’re doing some dance moves by yourself to the faint Top 40 songs playing on the speakers (excuse me DJ, can you please play some Steve Winwood? Yeah, I’ll settle for Katy Perry.) Next thing you know, you’re in the bathroom thinking to yourself “I’ve got my lady here, my friends here and just pulled off a killer flossing routine in the middle of the bar, how could this night get better?!?!” That’s when you slowly look up from washing your hands and catch yourself in the mirror…”Shots.” It’s exciting in the same way that the idea of smoking a cigarette is. (Look cool and get a little extra buzz in the process!)

You’re in full-on “ignoring consequences”-mode until directly after you put down the empty shot glass. Fireball isn’t cheap, but you can’t close out your tab right this second because…uh…I STILL WANNA HAVE FUN! So now you’re panicking as you run through all the times you bought fireball shots in the past trying to figure out how much it’s going to cost. The “oh no”-face begins to take hold of you, but you have to play it off when your wife asks if everything is okay because NOBODY likes the “can we split that tray of shots?”-guy. (Honestly, I’ve never seen one of the Dark Knights of Fireball ask to split the cost afterwards, but I’m POSITIVE they all think about asking.) So you’re now stuck in the bar trying to do math (legally impossible after beer #7) while pretending that you’re still having a good time. On top of that, you broke your “no shots” rule and you’re thinking about it now because panic spares no potential suitor. When it begins, the panic zombie-goblins come back to life and begin feeding on any potential fear-inducing topic. 2 hours later, when you finally do close out your tab and sign your check, you nearly hyperventilate while thinking about your bank account, tomorrow’s hangover, and how your pants are going to feel after you DEMOLISH late-night pizza. Everything is, most certainly, not okay.

Thinks that no matter where you are, walking home is a good idea.

I don’t care if I’m at a bar in the middle of the goddamn ocean, the second close out my tab I’m thinking “walkin’ time!” There are so many reasons for this, but the top one has to be that walking home allows for the possibility of stopping at a late-night eatery for some delicious delicious treats. (I’ve gotta do a list of “Best Late Night Eats” at some point.) Asking an Uber to go through a drive-thru includes feeling ashamed for involving a stranger in your excess (this is our little secret!) AND ALSO risks the driver messing up your order when he asks what he should say into the drive-thru speaker. If you’re walking, you get to play the “well, I mean, McDonald’s is right there” game of chicken with your spouse. Saying ‘no’ to McDonald’s after midnight is the type of self-control that is written about in books that smarter people than me read. Whenever I’m late-night walking with The VP and toss out the “McDonald’s?” she shrugs in an effort to mask how OVERWHELMINGLY EXCITED she is that I was the one to suggest it. (The Dark Knight strikes again).

Unfortunately, when you live in a city like Chicago, with tons of stories about drunk idiots (me? are you talking about me?) getting mugged, walking home is NOT. SAFE. When I’m going out without The VP, she actually makes me promise her that I won’t walk home. Little does The VP of Ops know that my toes are crossed when I make this promise and YOU CAN’T GET MAD ABOUT CROSSIES!!! YOU CAN’T! If I simply plan to speed-walk home while zig-zagging down the sidewalk, “tough to hit a moving target”-style, I should be fine (I’m legit V nervous that I just jinxed myself.) When I’m descending into panic-mode following my OUTRAGEOUS bar spend, skipping the $13 Uber ride is going to make me feel just a little bit better. And at that point of the night, every little bit counts!

Finally, I don’t care what kind of shape you’re in, everyone loves breaking into the “I just want to be home right this second”-drunksprint and we’re ALL convinced that our drunksprint is faster than any car ever put on this earth. The next “Fast & The Furious” movie should really be about dueling drunksprinters.

MY WORLD:

I’ve taken the last week off from working out because during my last run I felt some crazy pulling on my hamstrings. I told myself that I needed the rest, which I probably did, but I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t A BILLION PERCENT THRILLED to have a legitimate excuse to not go to the gym for a little while. The downside of this MANDATORY vacation, however, is the guilt associated following every meal. Some of the things I’ve considered to combat this fat-guilt I’ve been experiencing, include:

-Shaving my beard: Shaving makes your face look thinner. I’ve had a “beard” (stop laughing Dad!) for a few months now, so if I shaved it, I think people would be like “whoa, have you been losing weight?” Tricked ya!

-Cutting my hair: I need a haircut and have been wearing a hat for about 5 weeks straight now to hide this fact. Along the same lines as the beard thing, if I get a haircut, it could distract people from my widening torso. If I got a SUPER new haircut, like a buzz or one of those cool hipster/hitler-youth haircuts, people would def not notice that I’m wearing my “the diet is not going well”-jeans.

-Embracing being bigger: I just don’t think I’m tall enough to pull off “big guy”. It stinks because I feel like there are taller guys who are overweight, but they wear it well so they can just be “the big guy.” I wanna be “the big guy”! When I gain weight, I’m stocky and NOBODY wants to be “the stocky guy”. Is there any other way I can embrace the inevitability of getting bigger? I’m open to suggestions here.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My Dad sent me the link to this song last week. I remember when I told people that I hated country music. I do not feel that way anymore. This song is fabulous.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you bring your car in for an inspection and the body shop guy comes into the waiting room because he “needs to talk to you about something.” GREAT!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Been really up and down lately. Hit big on some World Cup bets last week but also learned the hard lesson that betting the moneyline in soccer means your team has to win by the end of regulation. I realized this while celebrating my Croatia “win” and assuring my gambling partners that Bovada must be malfunctioning because it hadn’t paid us out yet. After about 19 page refreshes, The VP googled “soccer gambling” for me and broke my heart while reading the moneyline regulation rules. If I would’ve known gambling involved reading and learning, I never would’ve gotten into it. Today I’ve got Belgium because I bet on them before the tournament started and don’t want to start rooting against them now even though I’m TERRIFIED of that fast French dude MBappe.

(Current balance at $31.87)

K bye.

Becca is RUINING “The Bachelorette” (6/26/18)

OUR WORLD:

I’m doing my best to hold out for the many many MANY readers who are waiting on baited breath for my takes on reality television, but I have to come clean: I’m about to bail on this season of “The Bachelorette”. Why? (Solid question, thanks for asking) Because Becca stinks. Excuse me, Becca doesn’t stink, she STINKS LIKE DIRTY RAT PIG! “The Bachelorette” is meant to have a somewhat likable, pretty lady make a bunch of douchey guys look silly while we kinda’ root for her to find the one normal-ish dude in the bunch (it’s like a game of pin the tail on the non-douche!) This whole equation goes right down the crapper when we’re forced to watch an overdramatic Ice Queen play the victim 24/7/365. With the popularity of this blog soaring to new heights EVERY. GODDAMN. SECOND. I’m thinking that this reaches Becca, herself. Therefore, Becca, I’m going to write directly to you.

What’s the deal with the sparkle dresses? The VP of Ops said last night that you “dress like a dickhead” and, being a fashion icon myself (Jimmy Fashion, ever heard of him?), I must say that I agree. You dress like a dickhead. Nobody wears sparkles as often as you do. After a while, it’s like “we get that we’re supposed to look at you, you’re THE bachelorette on ‘The Bachelorette!” Insecure much? (Girrrrrrrlllllll!!!!) And, trust me, I’ve done my best to defend you and your “look at me” sparkles to the VP, but when you turn around and wear some ridiculous crop top on the next group date it amounts to a slap in my face. Aren’t you 30? Do you know what it’s like to defend your dumb sparkles for an entire solo date and then have The VP give me the “told ya'” eyes when in THE NEXT SCENE you’re wearing a t-shirt that’s too small for a baby? BABY’S WEAR LONGER SHIRTS THAN YOU! Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and you best believe Imma write a blog about how I’m FINISHED with you. BELIE ‘DAT! (We get it Jimmy, we’re reading the blog.)

Now let’s get into last night’s episode. There was no part of you that thought “you know, Chris really went all in on that stupid Danke Scheoen performance, I’m going to make sure I talk to him!” Nope. After performing a Wayne Newton cover in front of Waxy Wayne HIMSELF, national television cameras, and a crowd of strangers ALL FOR YOU, you still thought to yourself “I’m only going to believe Chris likes me if he seeks me out later during the group date!” THAT’S LOONEY TOONS!!! If I buy one roll of paper towels for our apartment and The VP doesn’t give me a sincere “thank you so much,” I’m holding a grudge for the rest of the night. And Becca, we have a happy marriage! But nope, you saw a sliver of an opportunity to make yourself into the victim again and BOOM, you took it! When Chris tucked his balls away later and offered that “apology” I almost threw up. He should’ve told you that he was Team Arie and gone back to the Wayne Newton show to see about scooping up the one groupie under the age of 72.

Speaking of Arie, how long are we supposed to feel bad for you? Forever? It’s not like you were in a 7 year relationship that ended on the altar in front of a nationwide audience. You “fell” for an obvious tool who you went on like 4 dates with in a 6 week span. He gave you a ring and then said “nah, never mind I like the blonde more” a couple weeks later. Was it nice of him? Of course not, but he also didn’t tie an anchor to your foot and invite you to go scuba diving. I’ve had rougher break-ups with toothbrushes (but I don’t wanna spend $7 at CVS!!!) Yet, every chance you get, you toss out the “remember, I’m the forever victim”-eyes. You will get no more sympathy from me, you ordered up a big plate of Arie. When The VP orders sushi on a hungover Sunday, I don’t feel bad for her. Just like I tell The VP, “It’s your decision, but we all know it’s going to end horribly.”

Finally Becca, lets talk about Lincoln. We’re getting into the heart of this season and you just picked him over a dude who built the Venmo app. Seriously? You think some mumble-mouth muppet, who cried about a wet picture frame, is more husband material than a guy who LITERALLY built the app that gives you money? Every psychiatrist in the universe who watched that just diagnosed you as a certified IDIOT. I’m sure you have a therapist, so here’s a spoiler for your next session: they’ve labeled you a “lost cause” and are going to drop you as a patient. If this is a ploy to get on Dr. Drew’s new show “Celebrity Idiots,” then congratulations, you just locked up a spot on the inaugural season.

I tried defending you, Becca. But, between the sparkles and the crop tops and the Lincoln stuff and the death glares, I have officially decided that I am out on you. While I doubt I will watch ALL of the rest of the season, I am now rooting for an epic finale. In my dream scenario, you pick someone, Colton probably, and he gets down on a knee. With your heart about to explode with happiness, Colton opens a ring-sized box and says…SIIIIIKKKKKEEE!!!! Then, Arie’s new wife, Lauren, runs out and slaps you in the face right before making out with Colton right in front of you as Arie laughs in the background. Either that, or you pick Garrett without realizing he’s the head of the KKK’s Minnesota chapter.

MY WORLD:

I’m stressed.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’ve always thought I should like Weezer than I should, but I really do LOVE this cover. I can’t tell if they’re trying to be funny or if this is a cheesy song, but it gets the coveted Jimmyschair “Stamp of Like”!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

This whole Pete Davidson/Ariana Grande relationship is making everyone uncomfortable. Can you guys just stop?

I’M TAKING A MINI-BREAK FROM GAMBLING THAT MAY LAST AS LONG AS 4 DAYS BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN ON A DREADFUL LOSING STREAK AND BETTING ON BASEBALL AND SOCCER IS REALLY STARTING TO PISS ME OFF. GIVE ME FOOTBALL NOW.

K bye.

Worse Jobs Than Yours and Jeans in Critical Condition (6/25/18)

OUR WORLD:

Was I the only one to mutter “fuck this world with my whole heart” this morning? My Monday morning routine has come to include vile self-talk followed by a sad march to make coffee before sitting on the couch and hugging my dog until she gives me the “are you actually about to start crying?” pull-away. (Are we sure that hugging your dog can’t turn back the clock until it’s Sunday morning again? BUT ARE WE SURE?!?!) It’s quite the scene in the Pomerantz household. (Household? You live in an apartment, pal. Quit fibbin!”) Now that I’ve finished shaking my head at nothing in particular, I’m ready to put my energy into finding perspective. This section is somewhat twisted. I’m aware that making myself feel better by thinking about the misfortune of others isn’t exactly the most noble of pursuits. GOOD THING I’M NOT NOBLE! Faithful readers, lets take a trip back to…the “At Least I Don’t Have To Do That”-Job list.

Biker Gang Organizer:

I was in the burgeoning metropolis of Rockford, Illinois for a work event at a big sports bar this Saturday. Unbeknownst to me, Rockford is home to large biker organizations (I don’t know if it’s a gang and if they read this and saw “gang” would they get mad and come find me? Oh who am I kidding? Bikers can’t read!) GANG! In the middle of my event, a biker GANG (still kinda’ scared…) pulled into the parking lot of the bar. This gang consisted of about 60ish large humans wearing leather vests and bandanas while sitting on OBNOXIOUSLY loud motor vehicles. The bar hosting my event was also the second stop on a Biker Bar Crawl. I felt so lucky! (Lucky? Or that feeling when you’re terrified and sad and annoyed at the same time but you act excited because the people around you think bikers are cool? Yeah, the second one.)

Once all of the “I’m tough because I bought a leather vest”-people had parked their bikes, however, a leader emerged. A fleshy fellow walked to the middle of the lot, did that super loud whistle thing where you put fingers in your mouth, and yelled to the crew “WHAT DOES SINGLE-FILE MEAN?!” I confidently raised my hand, but I guess I didn’t count. (Fucking bullshit.) If we’re being honest, he didn’t seem to genuinely care if people did know because he continued with his loathsome rant pretty quickly, “IT MEANS SINGLE FUCKING FILE!” Ohhhhhhhhh! But I thought, it meant…double….file. The gang looked to each other with knowing nods, shared some chuckles and said things like “I’m glad that Larry is so willing to share what he knows with the rest of us!” Seeing education live is inspiring.

But then I watched Screamy Larry head over to his clique for a few aggressive fist bumps and backpats. It was clear he was not the leader of the Biker Gang. Instead, he must’ve been the organizer guy; which makes sense because a Biker Gang leader doesn’t have to do stuff like look behind him while riding to make sure everyone is in single file. Jax Teller never looked back, only ahead (Sons of Anarchy reference. If you don’t get it, watch the show NOW.) So I started thinking how much it must SUCK to be the guy in the biker gang in charge of making sure they stay in single file while riding around towns. Further, there’s no way that the single-file thing is all Screamy Larry is responsible for, he must be like the Head of Organizing for the biker gang. So the screaming made sense. Can you imagine how frustrating it must be to have to organize a biker gang?!

Aside from the whole single-file fiasco, he’s probably in charge of: figuring out how much each biker owes when they go out for a big group lunch; making sure everyone has the right patch on their leather vest; scheduling the chores at the biker gang clubhouse; AND, Screamy Larry also probably has to keep track of all of the members’ birthdays, ensuring they don’t forget to sing “Happy Birthday” and have cake in the break room. Remember the time they forgot Knuckles’ birthday? Knuckles and Screamy Larry do. Simply can’t have that.

Today, when you’re staring at your computer screen while telling yourself not to say what you really want to say to your boss, be grateful that your job doesn’t entail having to send Venmo reminders to bikers who still owe from yesterday’s team lunch at Longhorn Steakhouse. Screamy Larry knows that half the gang doesn’t even have Venmo, but asking a biker, in person, for money is something he’s just not up for on a Monday.

Money People:

This is broad and general because the whole “money management” universe is foreign and supremely intimidating. I have friends and a brother who work in this world and I cannot imagine the stress of it. Heading to the office on a Monday in charge of managing someone’s retirement or life savings or couch change would fill me with the type of anxiety that necessitates a 3rd martini on a Sunday night (NEVER a good idea).

What do their voicemails sound like? “Hey Jimmy, Mr. Perrywinkle here, I saw a report on the news that the market is taking a dive. Is that the same market you just passionately convinced me to put my life savings into? Just checking, let me know!” There have to be calls like that, right? And then you’d have to call back to remind the person whose bank account you just decimated that the market is, ultimately, unpredictable. I’m sure they understand…

(I always feel impossibly ignorant when talking about money stuff….BUT LETS KEEP GOING!) When I see reports about the stock market doing well or not doing well or doing the same, I think to myself “that should probably interest me more than it does.” In reality, I’m just annoyed that the news put the ‘Market Report’ ahead of the story about ‘Chicago’s Best Mozzarella Stick.’ (The answer is “Roots Pizza” FYI. You’re welcome.) The money guys, though, probably feel their phones seizing during any report about THE MARKET. I can imagine a money guy or gal taking their dog for a walk on a nice day when, out of nowhere, their phone begins vibrating so much that it starts a mini friction-fire in their pants pocket. “Uh oh, THE MARKET!”

Aside from having to be the face of market fluctuations, Money people have to make a lot of spreadsheets and graphs and presentations to really smart people in suits about spreadsheets and graphs. Decimals and percentages and JESUS H. CHRIST it’s hard to breathe while wearing a tie in the summer. If I were a money guy, all of my presentations would just be titled “We Should Invest in ______ Because My Rich Grandpa Said We Should.” That would be the entire presentation, actually.

Rich Person’s Assistant

Most of us work in jobs where we’re surrounded by co-workers who earn about the same amount. Today, when you’re having a mild panic attack re: the $74 you spent on brunch yesterday, you can look to either side and see co-workers also nervously typing in their online banking passwords. The Monday money check is a trying time, but we’re all in it together. That is, of course, unless you work as a personal assistant for a super rich person. While you’re scrolling through the 14 separate charges from “Louie’s Pub” on your Chase Mobile App, your boss is tasking you with picking out a new Monday watch for him. “Something that’s not too flashy, but enough to where people will know that I use the word ‘summer’ as a verb.” That means the assistant gets to go into the jewelry store with a security guard!

Who do these assistants relate to at their job? Who is the friend they can pull aside for the “you know, I hate to complain, but…”-chats? The housekeeper’s are not on your side because they know that you get to ride in the fancy cars. You can’t whine to the spouse because YOU KNOW they’re just going to tattle on you the next time they feel like having a “you can trust me”-convo with your boss. The kids just think of you as the person who gets them the things they want. So you’re left to text your friends who are too busy pretending to not look at their phones on Monday morning. YOU ARE ALONE AND POOR IN A BIG, EXPENSIVE HOUSE! If I was a rich person’s assistant, I would have a designated time every Monday morning where I would just stare at a mirror while crying. I’d also probably steal little things like toilet paper and the little dog poop bags.

MY WORLD:

I’m a one-pair-of-jeans-for-6-to-8-months kind of guy, and it appears I am nearing the end of the road for my current pair of jeans. This always happens and it’s never not sad. The crotchal region of my jeans, having been stretched for months on end, begins to wear…and then a hole appears. This hole gets large quickly and I am forced to retire the jeans. My current jeans are hanging on by mere threads. Upon close inspection this morning, we’re looking at another 3.6 days tops. This means that for the next two weeks I have to wear pants that I don’t really want to be wearing. It also means that I will be a little depressed because as hard as I try, there’s no way around thinking that the jeans died because my thighs got fatter. If you happen to catch me staring down at my thighs over the next two weeks, do me a favor and feel free to mention that my legs don’t look chubbier than they did 6 months ago. A simple “it’s gonna be okay” would suffice too.

And you think you’re having a tough Monday.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’m seeing Dave Matthews Band this weekend and I am so excited I’m going to talk about it to strangers this week!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you get up at 4 A.M. on Monday morning and think “is it even worth it to try to go back to sleep?” Next time this happens to me, I may just buy a ticket to Yugoslavia and start a new life.

GAMBLING WENT HORRIBLY THIS WEEKEND, THANKS FOR ASKING! TURNS OUT, BLINDLY BETTING ON A SPORT YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT (SOCCER) IS NOT A RECIPE FOR SUCCESS. LIVE AND LEARN.

K bye.

THIS BACHELORETTE STINKS LIKE POOP-AND-WHY I’M NOW A CLUB GUY (6/12/18)

OUR WORLD:

I’m close to being out on this season of The Bachelorette, guys. When the episode started last night, I was having too much fun cooking shrimp tacos and drinking a beer by myself in the kitchen that I just told The VP to let me know if anything crazy happened. The tacos were actually done and I just kept stirring the shrimps while sipping my DEEEELISH beer and making “AHHHH!” sounds after ever sip. After a few, “Oh my god”s coming from the living room, though, I felt it was my duty to soldier on through this episode (salute my sacrifice!) Unfortunately, after toughing my way through that 2 hours of GUCK, I felt even closer to being out. Let’s go over some reasons why:

1) Becca is the definition of “Meh”: The VP does not think she’s hot at all and I go back and forth on it. She dresses like a dickhead, and when Jimmy Fashion is calling out your outfit choices, you KNOW there’s an issue. We get it, you have a flat stomach. Now, how ’bout you act like the near-30 year old you are and wear a full shirt. (Grandpa Jimmy’s getting his gun! RUN!!!) Aside from debating about her looks (Which I didn’t even want to do because that’s superficial and stuff. The VP goes into mean-girl mode and drags me down with her. SHE MAKES ME DO IT!) She’s not interesting or funny or villainous or….ANYTHING EXCEPT “MEH”, though. Has she said anything that has made you close to laughing? She had the perfect opportunity to dunk on Jordan with a joke about his tinder stuff and, instead, she gave a super awkward, passive-aggressive high-five. Look, Jordan is a tool (I actually don’t totally hate him FWIW) but maybe Becca could break out something better than her best ABC Family joke? When she did that and then tried to calm Jordan down by saying “I was just trying to lighten the mood with a joke” I almost drove to the bazooka store to buy a bazooka5000 JUST to shoot my 11 year-old Vizio flat-screen to FUCKING BITS! Next time you’re trying to lighten the mood, make one person in the entire world at least chuckle.

I also think that Becca took acting classes taught by a former construction worker recovering from the “look out for that huge steel beam!”-moment. Are producers telling her to ham up every minor difficulty? Sure, but that’s where anyone who ISN’T an AWFUL actress, just bites their lip and shakes their head while saying “I just don’t know…” Becca, on the other hand, tries to force tears any chance she gets while saying things like “I have nothing left.” She actually said “I have nothing left” when Clay told her he had to leave the show. Really Becca? Clay, while a nice enough dude, was about as charismatic as a used paper towel and had ZERO chance of actually winning this show. Walgreens not having your favorite flavor of KIND Bars is more emotionally devastating than Clay leaving the show. Meanwhile, Becca is clawing near her eyes to wipe away her nonexistent tears. I’m no eye-makeup expert (please do not bring up my college emo phase thx!) but if a woman who wears GOBS of eye-makeup, like Becca, started crying, wouldn’t SOMETHING run down her cheek? IT’S LIKE SHE TAKES US FOR FOOLS!

2) Who are we supposed to be rooting for? I think the answer to this question is Colton, but how hard can you root for a virgin football player? (Jesus, Jimmy’s banging on the virgin again….YOU BET I FUCKIN’ AM!) Seriously, you’re one WHOPPER of a DOOF if you can’t parlay being in the N-F-FRIGGIN-L into one. sexual. encounter. Lying about playing HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL got me laid; this dude has NFL YouTube highlights and can’t get past first base with Tia. I’m sorry, but when you’re a guy who’s just a little too sweet and nice and cute…you enter into Creepsville. Colton seems to be on a mission to Creepsville, USA.

So who else? Garrett? Oh, you mean the douche who supports the theory about David Hogg and the Parkland students being crisis actors? Yeah, I’m gonna pass on this Alex Jones fanboy. If you haven’t read up on the tweets and instagram posts that Garrett liked, do yourself a favor and google it. The VP had tried telling me about it throughout the first few episodes but I wanted to ignore it because trashy TV isn’t supposed to be political! But…uh….this dude is just an asshole. In a sick way, I’m hoping he wins and Becca has to spend the entire reunion show explaining how she doesn’t support making fun of the trans community, tossing immigrant children over a wall, and bullying high school kids who had their friends murdered in front of them. Because Garrett, that fun-loving, gun-toting outdoorsman who just wants to show Becca a good time, enjoys all of those things. Who else would love getting to see Chris Harrison squirm as he asks Becca what she thinks of Trump’s barbaric immigration policies? (Here’s a link to the tweets/instagram posts that Garrett liked: https://twitter.com/AshleySpivey/status/999755526257954816/photo/1)

The one guy who is worthy of rooting for is the stuntman Leo (SWOON ALERT!). The dude with the preposterous hair who makes me laugh in his 48 seconds of weekly screen time, however, has about the same chance of winning as my great great grandfather which is funny because HE’S DEAD! (Yikes, that was dark.) Barring another “he fell off the top bunk”-situation, the final 3 look to be Garrett, Colton, and Blake. A triumvirate better known as “Who gives a shit?”

3) The villains aren’t “villain-y” enough: The VP does seem to genuinely hate Jordan, but how seriously can you hate a guy who talks the way he does? His whole “my professionality is my personality” diatribe was just plain silly. The guys around him were kinda laughing and that’s not what villains engender. You remember Chad? Guys were peeing their pants around him because he was so scary. If one of them would’ve made the “I’m trying not to laugh”-face that all the dudes were making during Jordan’s spat, Chad would’ve torn their heads off their necks and snacked on their brains. LITERALLY, GUYS! And Jordan’s nemesis is weasel-faced David who isn’t coordinated enough to SLEEP without sending himself to the ICU. Also, real quick real quick, in the history of “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette” has a tattle-tail ever won? When David ran to tell Mom, I mean Becca, about Jordan’s tinder stuff he might as well have just left the house. Is Jordan a tool? Of course. But, David is a rich kid with that permanent “You obviously don’t know who my father is”-smirk. Did you see any of the SNL skits this year where they’d have Don Jr. and Eric Trump acting like petulant, idiot babies? DAVID IS THE SNL-EXAGGERATED VERSION OF ERIC TRUMP:

If you want me to hate a character, as ABC obviously does with Jordan, you’ve gotta give me a better adversary than the “where are the railings on the top bunk?”-guy.

MY WORLD:

I went to kind of a club place a couple weekends ago, and I think I’m a club-guy now! (Jimmy NOOOOO!!!!!) Let me know explain. The VP had some super cool Southern friends in town (Southern girls > Northern girls. FACTS ONLY IN THIS BLOG!) and they wanted me to meet up with them after a work thing I had. It wasn’t just me and the gals as there were some boyfriends there too (don’t hate the juicy goss I get to hear when it is just me and the gals TBH) but they were at some place in downtown Chicago I had never heard of. Place I haven’t heard of PLUS downtown Chicago definitely means it was clubby. Knowing this, I decided NOT to change my outfit following my work thang. This meant that I showed up to a club in dirty shorts that are no less than 7 years old, high-socks, gym shoes, and a backwards hat. The VP was mortified. My entrance was a success.

Being the worst dressed male on the disastrously douchey rooftop, and making The VP incredibly uncomfortable in the process, turned into the most fun I’ve had in a club maybe ever? Looking like a high school gym teacher in a sea of hair gel and vodka sodas wasn’t enough for me, though. I would only be drinking canned beers and would NOT be shy about throwing out some painfully uncoordinated “sway-like” dance moves while standing next to The VP. Whenever I’d feel her getting some separation from Coach Me, I’d throw my chin up in the air and belch out a thick Chicago-accented “hey babe, where you going?!?!” I never call her “babe” and I never talk in a thick Chicago accent. I was on a mission to be THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE of every other guy on that rooftop.

While some may say this whole charade was simply a weak attempt to mask my insecurities, I would say…yeah, that’s probably right. In all likelihood, I was in the bottom 11% of guys on that rooftop in terms of looks and bank accounts. If I’m being completely SUPREMELY honest, there were some guys up there who I’m pretty sure were male models. They were tools, but one of them danced with a friend of The VP and all I could think was “thank God, Captain Delicious didn’t ask The VP for a dance” because he was way bigger and better looking than me. If, after a few “hey, I’m just casual”-canned beers, Captain Delicious would have hit on The VP, I would’ve said something like say “Hey…can you not do that?” while simultaneously praying that this dude didn’t feel like showing The VP how far he could throw me. Thankfully, the adonis I referred to in my head as “Captain Delicious” danced with The VPs friend a few yards away from me; allowing me to whisper cutting remarks about his DUMB HAT in the VPs ear. Yeah, I’m one tough hombre.

Following this near-death experience, though, I went back to making The VP uncomfortable while earning a beer buzz in a place known for low-cal libations. The music was silly and thumpy, but different enough that me yelling “how about some Incubus?!?!” at the DJ earned a few chuckles. (Real talk: who wants to open an Incubus-only bar with me? Incubus on the speakers, and a menu that only consists of nachos and cheap whiskey shots. GET READY FOR FUN!) Clubs are supremely uncomfortable for non-douchebags when they’re single. However, 6 years later, when these non-douchebags are now married, clubs are a bastion of inadvertent comedy. Now that I’m married and in my 30s, I’m a club guy. CATCH ME ON THE DANCE FLOOR!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting a chocolate chip cookie from Potbelly at lunch because it’s your birthday week and calories don’t count that week.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting sleepy at work 2 hours after you ate a massive sandwich and chocolate chip cookie from Potbelly during your birthday week.

K bye.

Rules When Sitting Alone At The Bar and Jimmy Fashion (6/8/18)

OUR WORLD:

Since sitting alone in bars is part of my job (professional Sad?) I’ve developed proven methods to give off “no, it’s okay, I’m not a sad person”-vibes. It’s tricky, really, toeing the line between self-assured, creepy and sad while sitting alone at a bar, but when done properly, can make you feel like one of the cool movie guys who make you want to get into cigarettes again. (Then you’ll probably go overboard and try rolling the pack in your short sleeve like James Dean until you catch your profile in a mirror and realize that your jawline is NOT chiseled.) I’m planning for “The Rules of Being Alone At A Bar” to be recurring posts. Let’s try these out first:

NEVER SIT DIRECTLY NEXT TO SOMEONE WHEN THERE ARE OTHER SPOTS OPEN: What’s worse than sitting at a bar with a bunch of open seats, and some chode picks the seat right next to you? Everyone knows that there should be one seat in between each party at the bar and if I owned a bar, I would actually mandate this by allowing my customers to place sharp metal spikes on the seats flanking their party at the bar. Would there be some bloody butts? If it keeps the creeps fromma’ creepin’, then it’s well worth it. Girls, wouldn’t you be much more likely to go to the Spikey Seat bar than risk having Hairy Jerry and his double vodkas sitting next to you and your friends on a Friday night?

If you are reading this and thinking “I like to sit next to strangers at the bar because I’m open to meeting new people!” just stop fibbing yourself. The whole “meeting new people”-catchphrase was started by some hippy who wrote a book or something that confused affability with harassment. What, you can’t talk to someone if your love-handle isn’t resting on their thigh? (Side note: ever look at people seating at the bar from behind? NOBODY looks good. It’s like a row of ziplock bags stuffed full of melting gelato with heads on top. Oh, and the heads? Most have bald spots.)

MAKE FRIENDS WITH THE BARTENDER WITHOUT A FULL-BLOWN CONVERSATION: Not every bartender is an amateur psychiatrist thrilled to diagnose all the problems you’re dumping on their doorstep. Remember especially if they’re over the age of 35, they’re doing a job that requires an explanation of “what went wrong” every time they speak to their grandfather. When I bartended, I did not whistle while I worked. Instead, I felt trapped between sads and their unprescribed medicines; I got to play the unlicensed doctor setting my patients up for a blip of relief before waking up with a stinging headache. (I just don’t understand why Jimmy wasn’t a good bartender?!?!) I was cordial with the alone-people at the bar, but I was overly cautious with them due to the fear of getting caught by a talkative one. Ever wonder why the bartender acts super busy in a slow bar? He’s probably trying to avoid getting cornered by an alone-person sitting at his bar. It must be a BILLION-TRILLION-GAJILLION times worse for female bartenders. Give ’em all purple hearts and lifetime passes to every panic room ever constructed.

As an alone-person at the bar, simply play hard to get with the bartender. You want to make friends with him because maybe he’ll give you a free drink and most bartenders have cool stories. So order your bev, thank him or her without really looking at them, and go back to watching the television. Play it cool, guys. Keep an eye on what’s going on around the bar and, after a while, you’ll pick up on some of the politics surrounding your seat. Maybe you’ll see a pouty server or a bitchy customer or an angry boss. Once you spot this, wait for the bartender to come near you and flip a “I’m with you, brother”-comment the bartender’s way. For instance, lets say you see a customer send back a drink more than once. When the bartender nears you, say something like “they seem like fun.” BOOM, you’re on the bartender’s side. All most bartenders want to do is complain about their job, so once you open that possibility for them, they’re puddy in your hand. And guess what? Alone-you has just made friends with the most popular person in the place. Congratulations.

DON’T TALK TO THE TELEVISIONS: You’re not fooling anyone. The entire bar knows that your running commentary on the muted news program is a signal: YOU’RE DYING FOR SOMEONE TO REACT TO YOU! I’m not talking about the meatballs who yell at their teams during important sports games (how else would the players know they were fucking up?) No, I’m talking about the nights at the bar where there aren’t sports on, but they left the TVs on, like, the news. There’s no sound, but a picture of Trump will come on the screen and the alone-guy DYING FOR A REACTION will blurt out something like “You believe this guy?” First off, no, I can’t fucking believe that guy. But more importantly, I don’t want to be goaded into a political conversation with the alone-guy stranger at the bar. Nobody does EXCEPT for maybe some of the other alone-guys at the bar. This creates an absolute nightmare scenario where alone-guys are shouting conversation to each other from across the bar. If you find yourself in one of these shouted convos, stop it right now. You don’t want to be one of these people for even ONE SECOND of your life.

Now what if you hear one of these alone-people barking at the TV, but you didn’t know that was the situation? You turned to your left and, all of a sudden, you’re making direct eye-contact with said alone-person right as they’re reaching the climax of their political monologue. “Shit, alone-guy is gonna take this as a sign I want to engage in this” is what every sane person immediately thinks. And guess what? Alone-guy DOES take that eye-contact as a sign that you’re in. As you see television talker alone-guy misread your accidental eye-contact, he’ll shift slightly towards you covered in “let’s have a chat”-body language. Before he completely turns in his chair, you need to get up and go to the bathroom. That’s your only way out; straight bail move. Act like you really need to go and you turning that way was just part of your exit-move. Hop off your barstool and do a trot-waddle to the bathroom to really drive home the point. We don’t want to make the alone-guys sad, but it’s every man and woman for themselves whenever the television talker starts acting up.

MY WORLD:

I’m in the midst of a sock crisis, and I’m close to just throwing in the towel. The VP and I have gotten caught WAY behind with our laundry, so we’ve been employing the “lets rummage through the over-stuffed dryer every morning for our outfit”-plan of attack. Unfortunately, the fruits of these dryer searches are limited to shirts only. At this point, finding matching socks is about as likely as The VP becoming an ultra-marathoner (I think I’ve seen her run once…in an Ikea parking lot when she thought for a second she was gonna get hit by a car.) Now, a normal, responsible adult would gather all the hamper socks and devote however long it takes to match socks. Lest you forget, I am special and have chosen an alternative solution: embracing mismatched socks as “my new look”. I, Jimmyschair, hereby announce that I am no longer a sheep in the matched sock flock. Remember, fortune favors the bold.

socks

For those of you who thought Jimmy Fashion was dead: catch me on my yacht.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Dave Matthews Band came out with a new album and I think this is my favorite song on it. I THINK!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Rainy Fridays in the summer.

WRITING ABOUT GAMBLING ON THE NBA FINALS IS BORING ME SO I’M GOING TO TAKE A BREAK FROM IT FOR A LITTLE BIT. PLEASE DON’T CRY LIKE “BACHELORETTE” LINCOLN ABOUT THIS.

But real quick, I’m putting the balance of my Bovada account on the Warriors tonight.

K bye.