2018)

MY WORLD:

Happy Friday y’all! (I can say y’all cuz the VP of Ops is from the South and I’m married to her so I get to do what she gets to do because marriage is fair and that’s fair and shut up). The excitement I feel when I wake up Friday morning is the closest I now get to the excitement of childhood Christmas morning. Instead of running down the stairs to see presents, I’m running down the clock to get to drink many many alcohols. As a functional (FUNCTIONAL!) alcoholic, weekends are when I get to introduce the public to JIMMY GOOD TIMES aka JGT. I rid myself of the crippling fear of hangovers-which has ruined weeknight drinking for me forever-and am an overall much nicer, funnier, relaxed, better looking person (the better looking part of JGT abruptly ends when I wake up Sunday morning and morph into JIMMY SWEATPANTS; an overwhelmed, disheveled manager of hangovers and Sunday scaries who ONLY wears the pair of black Jordan Brand sweatpants that he bought in high school using his parents money.)

Every Friday seems to get away from me before it even starts, though. Like, I’ll get so excited that I’ll have a beer or two at lunch (BREAKING NEWS: Jimmy Good Times is at the gas station filling up that tank!) After an afternoon of e-mails, Steve Winwood tunes and some V suave, yet subtle seated dance moves, I basically run out to my car, forget any plans that I had for the night and lose myself in a “whatever, as long as I have a beer”-mindset. Think of how your dog acts when you ask if he wants a treat, then multiply that by FIFTY HUNDRED MILLION THOUSAND!

In an effort to plan ahead like uhhhhhh an adult, I would like to set forth my ideal Friday. Now look guys, while this is ideal, I also want it to be at least potentially realistic, so it won’t include deep-tissue massages from the girl in “Peaky Blinders” or Eddie Vedder introducing me to Wrigleyville bartenders as his “inspiration”. Let’s get real, here’s my IDEAL Friday.

EARLY MORNING: I get up at 6:30 feeling like a crisp bill of fucking money. The VP of Ops takes Belle out for her morning walk (already beginning to feel unrealistic…) I put on my cool-guy gym outfit, go to my Planet Fitness (can’t hear your snide remarks in this purple judgment-free zone). Bang out a killer sweat sesh to alleviate any guilt that may try to slow down JGT later in the night. Take a shower, and go to work with hair day that deserves its own series on AMC.

MID MORNING: Get to work and am greeted with coworkers feeling awkward around me because they were just talking about how much they enjoy my social media presence (don’t feel awkward guys, I’m a regular human being person just like you). The song on the office stereo changes to “Valerie” by Steve Winwood. I barely notice how great of a job I’m doing at my desk because I’m lost in chair dancing. People pretend not to notice, but they can’t help but secretly envy my effortless rhythm in the seated position.

LUNCH: We go to Big Star for margs and tacos and sit outside cuz it’s a sunny 76 degrees and my skin tans to the perfect shade of “did you go on vacation?” I’ll eat 3 tacos cuz 4 makes my stum hurt and I don’t want to get too full to enjoy their supes refreshing margy’s. Oh, and they better salt the ever-loving shit outta’ that glass, cuz JGT is a Salt Boi 4 Lyfe! Tablemates ask why I haven’t eaten many chips, I lie to them and say “I didn’t even notice them on the table” when it’s really because I have tremendous self-control and am planning to overdose on chips tomorrow. 2 margs, 3 tacos and a solid base tan later and I’m ready to polish off the last 4 hours of this workweek (UPDATE: Jimmy Good Times has crossed state lines into Illinois! “I’m comin’ home, I’m comin’ home, tell the world cuz I’m comin’ home”-JGT)

AFTERNOON: Well worded e-mails come pouring out of my fingers with Queens of the Stone Age’s “Rated R” album playing in the background. The office is beginning to empty, but I’ll wait because I’m a hard worker…and I brought a mid-afternoon beer back to my desk to sip on. What beer you ask? Let’s go with a hoppy MONSTER that you’ve never heard of but has V cool artwork on the can (I will pour it in a glass though cuz I like to show off how I’m not chugging yet). I finish that first beer right as 4:20 strikes and I make a funny, but like cool-funny weed joke to a co-worker who wears marijuana leaf socks. After he recovers from his laughing fit, we decide that since we’re in the last 20% of people left in the office, it’s time to leave and get a beer downstairs (I work at a V hot and sexy brewery and my office is above the taproom. BRAGGY BOY!)

DUSK: Polish off a beer in the taproom and go outside just as the VP of Ops pulls up to drive us back (responsible). VPOps parallel parks perfectly and takes Belle out for her dinner-time walk, while I crack an easy drinker and place my bets for the night. I feel great about all the teams I picked, and my Bovada account shows that I’ve been hot for a while now. The VP returns, Belle leaps into my arms and we twirl like we’re the last two beings on ear—(I just love her so much). Time to meet only our most fun friendos at my fave bar, Sheffields, and Belle understands. As we leave she sits, nods and smiles at us as if to say “you two deserve this.” Thanks Belle.

NIGHT: Sheffields is playing a mix of 90s alternative (JGT’S WHEELHOUSE!) along with the occasional pop BANGER that drunk 32 year-olds aren’t embarrassed to sing along to (anything by Sia or Rihanna and I. Am. In!) We’re drinking beers and laughing. My teams are up by enough that I just glance at the TV when I feel like smiling extra big. My friends talk about how good I am at gambling. VP of Ops is paying for everything because she is “so lucky”. The bartender points to the ring on my finger so all the other girls around know I’m taken (I didn’t even notice those girls). My main cool-guy bros and I hide from our spouses so we can take lemon drop shots without being judged. JIMMY GOOD TIMES BARREL ROLLS THROUGH THE WALL!!! WHAT AN ENTRANCE!!!

It’s simple, really, but I’m a simple man with simple pleasures and a simple brain (wait…) The rest of the night would mos def include late night food at Fatso’s (real place with the best late-night burger in the game) and that final at-home drink that I don’t need, but still enjoyed. For the sake of certain readers, I will leave the rest of my ideal Friday up to your imagination…but…let’s…just…say….R. KELLY IS A BLASTIN’!

OUR WORLD:

Okay, real talk, I want to make Oscars predictions but aside from like five categories, they’re pretty boring and I haven’t seen all the movies yet. Here’s what I got:

-“3 Billboards” for Best Picture because fuck this newfound backlash, this movie is bright, shiny gold.

-Frances McDormand for Best Actress is such a slam dunk that if I were her, I’d wear an “I Won” t-shirt on the red carpet.

-Gary Oldman for Best Actor because everyone says that’s going to happen and I won’t ever watch that movie cuz it looks boring and I ain’t into dat’ shiz.

-Sam Rockwell for Best Supporting Actor because he played a character that you can’t decide whether you hate or not and when you admit that to people you get nervous because you don’t know how they’re going to react to that.

-Chris Nolan for Best Director over Guillermo Del Toro because “Dunkirk” was an absolute two hour long heart-attack and “Shape of Water” made the VP of Ops and I feel weird about lonely people and their alone time.

-Jimmy Kimmel straddles lines like an expert line straddle and nails his job. Crushes the NRA; reminds everyone that Woody Allen is King of Creep Castle and the #MeToo crew should tell their snipers “shoot to kill; pats Donny T. on his bald head, but stops before Alec Baldwin carries him off on his shoulders; and makes everyone feel moderately uncomfortable when he reminds the audience that “Moonlight” won best picture last year even though more than half of the crowd will never see it.

-Jennifer Lawrence looks great, but gets even closer to the “okay, you’re not that funny so just chill”-line. I fully expect to look at the VP of Ops at some point to and say “do we not really like her anymore?”

-Quentin Tarantino shows up and I defend him because I love his movies, but deep down definitely think he does weird stuff. DAMNIT!

-VP of Ops and I agree that JoolyAnna RanSICK was born in the “Men In Black” world and, thus, is an alien.

-John Legend and Chrissy Teigen kill the red carpet, but the VP of Ops kinda’ ruins it when she refuses to stop showing me Chrissy Teigen Instagram posts that I don’t think are as funny as she does. Look, she’s funny, but the VP of Ops treats her Instagram like it never misses the mark. Meh. It’s fine. (VPOps will 100% send me an angry text about this).

-Whoever wins Best Actress will slowly walk up to the stage and then, out of nowhere, deliver their speech totally out of breath. This happens every time and it drives me nuts. Why are you out of breath when we JUST saw you WALK up to the stage?

-Incubus, unfortunately, will not be invited to perform “Pardon Me” as the rest of the “Best Song” nominees get to perform theirs even though “Pardon Me” should probably always be nominated for “Best Song” at every award show.

-Colin Firth will be shown in the audience and I will remind VP of Ops that I will never see a movie he’s in.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN:

I did not plan to bottom out as quickly as I did in front of an audience, but that’s exactly what has happened. Cleveland lost last night, but Lebron smiled throughout the entire game and gave high-fives to EVERY PHILADELPHIA SEVENTY-SIXER WHO HAS EVER PLAYED FOR THE TEAM AND IT MAKES ME SO ANGRY BECAUSE IT’S LIKE HE DIDN’T EVEN CARE THAT I NOW HAVE TO MAKE A DEPOSIT TO GAMBLE AGAIN! Seriously, this losing streak has gotten more than a little re-goddamn-diculous. I will make a deposit probably after beer number 4 tonight when I’m itchin’ for a little action. Tonight? Yeah, no friggin duh. I am ready to be so fucking back with Golden State (-13) over Atlanta.

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.

Dream Foods and TV Show Resurrections (3/1/2018)

MY WORLD:

When I used to wait tables there was a waitress, Sharon, who would ALWAYS talk to me about how, one day, she was going to reach a point in her life where she’d just eat whatever she wanted all the time. I used to hope that I would someday reach such guilt-free recklessness with my diet. Forget financial stability, finding a lifelong companion, or making a positive impact on ANYBODY else. THIS (being an unapologetic fatso) was an achievable goal! “DAD! I’M GONNA BE SOMEBODY!”

This achievement continues to allude me. Yesterday, I ate a medium-sized bag of peanut butter stuffed pretzels (MAJOR YUMMO ALERT) and had to immediately resort to “it’s okay, Jimmy, you ran yesterday and had to deal with a moderately annoying client today”-self talk. The path towards happy-chubba-bubba-land is lined with unflattering pictures, “bad angles” and magazines that use something called an airbrush that I, A) do not know what the H it is, and B) DO NOT HAVE FUCKING ACCESS TO. Brave little soldier that I am, I continue the climb.

I got a little chubby like 2 years ago (not huge, but I’m short so I went from short-normal to sturdy mini-fridge). I had been working a job I hated, and medicated with chips, heavy beers and NOT going to the gym (I reached a point where I had convinced myself that not going to the gym was good for me to do because the successful writers I read would always talk about how out of shape they were. It was a blissful delusion). I had run a marathon the year prior and decided that running that far in one day would keep me thin for the rest of my life.

My weight slowly rose according to the buttons on the waist of my pants (“We lost a lot of men that winter”–The story of Jimmy’s Winter 2015 Pants Buttons). The decision had been made that I was a 31 waist for the rest of my life, so buying bigger pants was out of the question (if you can squeeze into them, they fit). I remember sitting in my car, looking down at my thighs and thinking they were going to explode through my pants at any second. It would be like when you rip open that cardboard tube of pillsbury biscuits and you almost hear the dough thank you on it’s way out. Bending over was out of the question (if I had discovered a solid gold bar on the ground, I would have had to debate whether trying to bend down was worth risking the last pair of 31 pants that had yet to bust).

Times were so dark that not only did I go pants shopping….not only did I go pants shopping at Old Navy….but I went pants shopping at Old Navy, bought size 34 pants AND got silently mad at the VP of Operations when she referred to Old Navy’s measurements as “vanity sizing”. If you don’t know what “vanity sizing” means (I did not, and I wish I never had…stop reading if you’re where I was in 2015…this is about to ruin the dark, twisted fantasy that you’re living in) it’s basically a lie. “Vanity Sizing” means that an Old Navy 34 is a real life, like 36-ish. Chubbos like 2015 me go in to Old Navy, buy size 34 pants and tell the people around them that “it’s not that bad!” I don’t understand how companies can lie about MEASURABLE statistics, but I also don’t hate that Old Navy has done so successfully.

My wedding and some VERY unfortunate pictures shamed me back into the gym.

16473131_10201663227679896_4023888885178204911_n — Bad long hair and a striking double chin.

I’ve gotten back into running and size 32/33 pants (acceptable…I was kinda’ lying when I said 31s earlier. I fit into a pair of 31s for like a week after college. It was V cool.) But unhealthy food is SO EFFING GOOD that chubby Jimmy is always lurking in the snack aisles, and he CAME OUT TO PLAY yesterday.

My thing now is that I’ll eat healthy Monday-Thursday. Friday is a “sure I’ll have a sandwich and chips” day, then Saturday and Sunday I take a heavenly dumpster dive into the world of pizza and fries (if baby Jesus doesn’t hand me a plate of fries on my way into heaven, I’m turning RIGHT BACK AROUND IN HIS FUCKING FACE). So Monday-Thursday, I eat pretty much the same thing: Banana and whole wheat english muffin for breakfast (nana and muffy!), a protein bar and small bag of nuts for lunch, workout, then ONE beer with a dinner consisting of a meat and veggie.

Yesterday, though, I went into an account that had a big bag of Salt and Vinegar Kettle chips sitting behind the bar (I sell beer which means I’m in my car, a bar, or a grocery store pretty much all day. I cannot escape carbs). I was supposed to be convincing this bar owner that he should carry the beer I sell, and all I could do was stare at this bag of Salt and Vins (Salt and Vinegar Kettle Chips are my KING CHIP. I recently did a Top Ten Chip List with my friends and these wear the crown).

When I went into Walgreens to buy my protein bar, almonds and water I lusted for the chip section (it’s a naughty place…and I’m a naughty boy). I refused to directly pass the chip aisle for fear of not coming out alive. So I got to the “nutrition” aisle of walgreens and bought my clay-flavored protein slab. However, Walgreens did a nasty thing and moved peanut butter stuffed pretzels directly next to the nuts section. I walked by the pretzels and, literally, gasped. I’m not joking, I sucked air in as if to say “oh my my”. After shooting a few flirty smirks and eyebrow raises towards these lil’ cuties, I composed myself enough to grab my small bag of plain almonds and continue playing “hard to get” with these nasty babies (peanut butter stuffed pretzels, Jimmy. They’re peanut. butter. stuffed. pretzels. Jesus).

38 minutes later I pulled into the next Walgreens I saw, bought a bag of peanut butter stuffed pretzels and ate the entire bag in my car, panting like a malnourished dog the entire time.

As I sat in traffic on the drive home, all I could think about were those fucking Old Navy pants. Like I would get home and hear them chuckling in my closet. I bargained that I could make up for those wasted calories by working out harder than I planned and not drinking my ONE beer that night. TIP: Negotiating calories with yourself is something fun to do when you’re alone in your car during rush hour whilst thinking about opening the door to roll your fat ass under the biggest wheel of the oncoming Ford Astrovan.

If I could eat anything I wanted during the week without any of this psychological shrapnel, I’d probably go:

Breakfast: Breakfast Sandy–bacon, egg and cheese on a poppyseed bagel.

Lunch: A fried buffalo chicken wrap and fries.

Snack: Salt & Vinegar Kettle Chips…maybe a York peppermint paddy for that FRESH BREATH!

Dinner: Pepperoni Pizza. Duh.

Dessert: Ice-cream cookie (chocolate chip) sandwich.

What do you think of that, Sharon?

P.S. I drank a beer last night. Fuck it.

OUR WORLD:

“Will & Grace” and “Roseanne” are either back, or about to be back, on tv and it has me a-thinkin’. I’m not really a fan of either of those two shows because….uh….I don’t know, but I’m not. I would, however, like to see the following shows make a similar return (also, if you haven’t seen these…uh….stop being a stupid idiot and watch them):

“Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip”: Not many people remember this show because it came out the same year, on the same channel, directly after “30 Rock”. A 60-minute drama written by Aaron Sorkin about the world of a show like “Saturday Night Live”. Young, funny people with drug habits who are given fame and fortune = television gold. This show lasted one season THAT I LOVED. Sure, the comedy sketches within the show could have been better, but spitting on a show that featured Bradley Whitford reciting Sorkin lines is a DANGEROUS PROPOSITION my friends. This was like a candied version of “West Wing” and if you don’t like candy you can get the hell out.

“Oz”: This is a Bill Simmons-take that I couldn’t agree with more. I used to watch this show when I was in early-high school and it absolutely cemented me ranking “Going to Prison” as my number one fear in life. (I have had heated conversations with friends about how I would rather be dropped into the middle of the ocean with a bloody leg). “Oz” had super bad bad guys (J.K. Simmons can never pull off “cuddly, suburban dad” since this show) and V cool kinda bad guys (the All-State commercial guy is cool…but bad…but cool). Prison storylines on HBO are endless, so round up some Milennials to play new bad bad guys and V cool kinda bad guys, and you have a hit on your hands. If you cannot tell yet, I did have to go to film school to learn these terms of analysis. I’m working with a big toolbox here, guys.

“Friday Night Lights”: This show, more than any show in the history of television, just needs to go on forever. I think I had crushes on every single character at one-point throughout the show’s run. I grew my hair out to try to look like Tim Riggins (note: simply wishing you had movie-star hair does not give you movie-star hair). I bought the sunglasses thingy (crokeys?) that Coach Taylor wore around the back of his neck. I was nicer to my grandparents because Saracen was a so nice to his grammy. I think the reason I tell people I would move to Texas is because of this show (Austin is like too popular to be cool now, right? So, I have to be into like San Antonio?) This show makes you a better person. (Cue somber music…look at yourself in the mirror…you need to be better). Aside from making you a better person, we can all agree that while Kyle Chandler and Taylor Kitsch should be absolutely THROATING the box office, they are not and most likely (DUE TO NO FAULT OF THEIR OWN) never will. Therefore, I propose a new Hollywood rule: if a SMASH television show ends, but no one on the cast solidifies him or herself as a bonafide movie star in the 5 years following the show’s end, the entire cast must return to the show that made them stars for the rest of their lives. Deal? Good.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

American people who pronounce “Bruschetta”, Broo-sket-ah.

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN:

Here’s the deal, guys. I’m having a REAL hard time. I place bets with two other dudes so that we’re always in the same boat. Ride or die guys. Unfortch, my picks have been EPICALLY HORRENDOUS since football season. Therefore, while I wrote yesterday that I wanted to pick the Celts (-7), I had to cede control of my bet to one of my Ride or Die guys; and he picked Villanova (-6) over Seton Hall.

Villanova won by 1 on OT. Celtics won by more than 20. Cool. V cool.

Needless to say, I am RATTLED.

Tonight, I hope to go with…oh sweet jesus PLEASE GIVE ME A WINNER…Cavs (-3) over Philly.

(My account currently at $3.49…I only make a deposit when I hit $0.00)

K bye.

Walking a Psycho Dog and Oscar Movie Chit Chat (2/28/2017)

MY WORLD:

I used to think that people who walked aggressive dogs had to be assholes themselves. The dog wouldn’t be like that if their owner wasn’t like that. Of course, that was until I adopted (oh you forgot I ADOPTED my dog? Well…don’t) an aggressive dog, Belle, and totally disproved that theory. I am SO not an asshole. How can I prove this to you? 1) I welled up during the last episode of Bravo’s “Summer House” when Carl hugged his crying mom (“welled up” = crying in guy terms but it’s not blubbering, it’s like cool sensitive guy feelings that don’t get out of hand). 2) I called my Grandpa last week just to “say hey” (and avoid the sure-to-come guilt trip from my Dad for not calling him, but that’s neither here nor there). 3) I hate clubs. BOOM. Not an asshole. Welcome to FactsOnlyVille, USA.

Now that we have established that I’m not an asshole, my dog, Belle, most certainly is. We adopted her when she was about 1.5 years old (I bought her to get back on the VP of Ops’ good side after momentarily forgetting her bday…story for another time…) We adopted her from a family in Southern Indiana who seemed normal because…they had a kid and told us they were normal. We should’ve known better. The VP of Ops and I met “The Normals” at a park in Southern Indiana and were met with a growling, ferocious beast ready to prove that she was the top of the food chain. We could only approach Belle 6 inches at a time while the owners unsuccessfully tried to calm her psycho, growling-ass down. Hindsight is 20/20, but this may have been a hint…

Belle is a total mush with the VP of Ops and I. Check out this melt-in-your-chair pic of our PRETTY GURRRRRRR

However, strangers may as well be Al-Qaeda according to her actions. Every morning before I take her out, I need to open my door (3rd floor walk-up chosen for the sake of my quads) to make sure that no other people or doggos are in the hallways…or about to enter the hallways. Seriously, if I hear someone rattling with their door lock, Belle is holding her morning tee tee poo poo (term courtesy of the VP of Operations).

Once we slink out of our building like the natural-born assassins we are, it’s a full-on cardio sesh for my eyeballs: darting to and fro attempting to avoid enemy combatants (enemy combatants = squirrels, doggos, any person, light twigs blowing down the sidewalk in the wind…) Coast is clear? It’s walkin’ time. Finding empty blocks in Chicago is dicey, however, and we are almost ALWAYS faced with some BozoTheClown trying to walk on the same side of the street as us. FUCK.

My fighter jet pilot-like eyesight will normally catch this BTC in time to cross the street, however, there are times when I convince myself that Belle has matured and now is the time to show off said maturity. A little self talk along the lines of “please God be nice,” and we’re off to HOPEFULLY walk past another human being without incident.

Normally, she’ll pull slightly on her leash, attached to the scary looking metal-teeth collar (psycho dogs wear psychokiller collars). As we approach this BozoTheClown, I’ll try to cut into Belle’s narrowing lens with a succession of quick “Hey Belle’s” or “Belle look’s”. Unfortunately, these enticing requests rarely interrupt her laser-like focus on the approaching BTC. The closer we get, the more I feel her body tensing, breathing slow, ears pin, and weight shift to her hind legs…lunge in 5, 4, 3, 2…I’ll extend my arms to wrap around her…and this fuggin’ BTC says “Hi Doggy”. THE NERVE!

Belle will lunge, I’ll grab her so she doesn’t make contact, but BTC normally cowers like the little bitch that he is (it’s easier to criticize bystanders than my dog, so get off my case). I’ll toss out an apology of sorts. “Sorry, she’s such a scaredy cat!” But, it’s too late. Damage is done. Belle has not matured and BTC probably can’t wait to tell his Uber driver what a bad dog owner I am. Hopefully, the Uber driver notices BTC’s unwelcoming aura and makes a mental note that dog’s only attack dickheads.

Flipped the script on ya’. Let’s call that the Jimmy Fliparooski.

OUR WORLD:

The Oscars are this Sunday. Let’s have a quick chat about some of the movies before I make my predictions in Friday’s blog (tease alert).

Get Out: I rented this a couple months back and watched it at home because it felt like entire friggin universe couldn’t stop talking about how groundbreaking it was. I resisted until then because I don’t like scary movies (have never understood enjoying the feelings of fear and dread…seriously, if you like scary movies, why not just make a doctor’s appointment every week so you get to hang out in the waiting room? Same feeling, right?) ANYWAY. Get ready for an unpopular opinion…this movie is supremely overrated. Sure, I laughed, but never that hard. Sure, I rooted for the good guy to escape, but never that hard. Sure, I was nervous that the bad guys were up to no good, but never that nervous. It was a movie full of me pursing my lips, nodding and going “hmm”. Like, “that was pretty good.” Confusing “pretty good” with “groundbreaking” happens when a movie no one was expecting anything from, has some decent moments. This happened with “Mad Max”, “Birdman”, and “Gravity” too. YEAH I SAID IT! Those movies, just like “Get Out”, were fine…that were turned into “groundbreaking” only in hindsight when the try-hards studied the scripts after seeing the movie and uncovered all of the hidden meanings that the unsophisticated rubes missed upon initial viewing. Guess what? If you don’t know a movie is GREAT while watching it, it’s not great. FINAL GRADE: SURE, BUT…

3 Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri: Yep! Not only the best movie of the past year, but it’s the best movie I’ve seen in the past FEW years. People’s reactions to 3 Billboards has been the opposite of Get Out: love it in the theater, then can’t wait to pick it apart a week later after they see a critic who wears cool glasses talk about how pedantic it really was (don’t know what “pedantic” means and will not look it up. It is a word that thin-mustachioed people I don’t like in my imagination use.) Here’s the thing with 3 Billboards; my mouth opened at least once every 7 minutes in this movie. “Wha?!?!” Movies are meant to consistently surprise you and I cannot tell you how hard that is to do when people have begun to catch on to movies’ rhythms’. This is why M. Night Shamalammadingdong hasn’t been the same since the “I See Dead People” movie. We caught on. Aside from acting performances that shook audiences much the way my portrayal of “Follower Rat #6” did in my elementary school’s rendering of “The Pied Piper”, 3 Billboards induced at least eight “Did you see that?!” moments between the VP of Ops and I. When you’re in front of a 90 foot screen and you turn to the person next to you to, sincerely, ask if they “saw that?” you know you’re watching something special. FINAL GRADE: YUH-HUH!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN:

Last night was an absolute bloodbath. Not only did I bet on Oklahoma, but my gambling crew and I decided we should pair that bet with the Bulls (+11) in Charlotte and enter the parlay zone. Bulls lost by 15. Oklahoma lost by a trillion. I then panicked and put the rest of my account, roughly $30 on the late NBA game: Denver (-6) over LAC. Clippers stormed back from 19 down to win by 2. Fun news to wake up to.

Thankfully, Bovada is a charitable organization and gave me $13.49 in bonus funds. Full transparency, I am waiting for one of my gambling partners to make the next pick (my picks need to be quarantined).

HOWEVER, if I were to go rogue tonight…DADDY LIKES ‘DEM CELTICS (-7.5) OVER CHARLOTTE.

(My account currently at $13.49)

K bye.

2/27/2018

MY WORLD:

When do you grow out of the phase where you hope that parking tickets just magically go away for a few months, and then end up panicking that you’re going to have to pay double the fine? I took my dog Belle (overused name? I’m unoriginal? Well, we adopted her and kept her name so she wouldn’t be overwhelmed with change. Welcome to “Jimmy is a Selfless Angel 101”) ANYWAY! Took my dog Belle on a walk this morning and had a near panic attack that my parking ticket fine was doubling at that very instant. I didn’t want to rush Belle’s morning dump but…like….SHIT ALREADY!

When I got back to my compound (lush carpets, wooden dressers, crotch-ripped GAP boxer briefs from 2013 in that wooden dresser), I rushed to my computer but only after I made my morning english muffy with butter because it’s always good to start your day off with nutrition. I burnt the muffy in my toaster 😦 BUT I ATE THE BURNT MUFFY CUZ I’M NOT WASTEFUL!!!

When I got to the payment page (shoutout http://www.cityofchicago.org/finance) I saw that my fine had not doubled, but that I did have a speeding camera ticket from July that has since doubled. I’M SO HAPPY AT THIS MOMENT IN MY LIFE! I now owed $160. Decision time for Little Jimmy, guys. Options: 1) Pay the tickets using different credit cards that I don’t really use that much because they’re nearly maxed out, but not totally maxed out. 2) Pay the tickets using the credit card I do use a lot because it gives me points and the successful people in my life talk about their points whenever I mention I’m driving to Nashville instead of flying. 3) Don’t pay the tickets, ignore any phone calls I ever get from numbers I don’t know and make love to my wife like the naughty boy that I am.

I paid the tickets and got points. I can’t wait to see what I can get with 160 points.

OUR WORLD:

Monday nights during “Bachelor” season are nearly as boneriffic (cool hetero in the building y’all!) as Sunday days during football season. Much like getting to watch day, afternoon and night games on Sunday, Monday gives us the can’t-miss triumvirate of “The Bachelor”, “Summer House” and “Vanderpump Rules”. If you’re a single dude and not into these show and think I’m a loser for getting SERIOUSLY FUCKING EXCITED to watch Brachelor Monday then please leave me alone because you sound like a guy who bumps into people at bars just to yell “What?!” at them (Bravo/Bachelor mash-up = “Brachelor”…not my best work).

Per usual, the VP of Operations (My Wife, Erin) and I settled in for a night of shared eye rolls and basic-bitch, mean-girl fun at the expense of people who are paid enough to be the butt of married couples inside jokes.

Quick takes:

“The Bachelor”: My disdain for Arie has gone down from the beginning of the season until now. He’s a doof asked to play James Bond. It’s been an awkward ride that hit it’s peak last night when he was forced to pretend he was tough with Becca’s ex showing up. (Becca’s ex, name?…let’s call him Jerry) When Jerry showed up it was clear that A) He could make Arie cry in a thumb war, and B) Arie isn’t as good looking as Becca’s ex. Knowing this (myself and the VP of Ops agreed on both of these so they are now facts for the record) Arie had to quickly resort to telling us how angry he was during the interview portion of the show. Arie: “Viewers, I am very angry about this situation now that I am alone in a room talking about it in the past tense and not across from that walking push-up-contest asskicker Jerry.” Jerry ended up getting embarrassed when Becca gave him the heisman, but Arie can never unsee the stronger, better looking person that Becca before him. THAT SITUATION NEVER ENDS WELL FOR MEN’S BRAINS.

“Summer House”: Missed most of it because the turkey tacos took too long, but I am Team Carl times a billion. If you hug your crying mother, you win the show. That blonde twin who wouldn’t stop frowning with a gun to her head is MAJOR NUTSO. Run Carl.

“Vanderpump Rules”: Lala…La La?….Lolla?….However the hell you spell her name, really grinds my gears. Can we agree that claiming to be an example for female empowerment while hosting at a shitty restaurant and living off your unnamed boyfriend’s bank account is a bit of an oxymoron? The VP of Ops wants to agree with me on this soooo bad, but pretends that she doesn’t because sometimes LOLahh makes a catty comment that she approves of. Oh, and poor Jax. I have definitely tried to prove to people on vacay that I’m into fitness and then had it backfire (got in a fight with the VP of Ops once during a wedding weekend when we were sharing a hotel room with another couple. She kicked me out of bed in the morning, so I pretended I was going to the gym. Once in the hotel gym, hungover as fuck, I sat on the lazy exercycle–the one with the back–and slowly peddled until having to race-waddle to the bathroom with sudden onset diarrhea.)

LET’S LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME: