Category: Uncategorized

Mom

*I’ve gone back and forth about whether I should post the following or not.  While the purpose of this blog has been to be as entertaining and fun as I can make it, I also did set out to make sure it was always unflinchingly honest.  Whenever I felt myself shying away from any embarrassing truth, I’d stop, recalibrate, and instead lean hard into that truth.  So, I’m going to do that here.

I haven’t written this blog in a long while because I’ve had some really, really good excuses not to.  For a writer, a good excuse is like cocaine.  Ankle surgery and my mother’s sickness allowed me the cover to be as lazy with my fingers as I wanted to.  So I was.  Unfortunately, yesterday I went to physical therapy and jogged for the first time in about 5 months…so the ankle excuse is toast.

My Mother passed away two weeks ago today, and that’s a really sucky thing to write.  I don’t know how to write it without sounding awkward and weird and guilty and sad and relieved.  I don’t know how to write about her…but I did.  My Mom loved reading this blog and has been on me to make sure that I always put writing first.  Whenever I’d stray away from it, snort the hell out of some excuse not to write, she’d remind me that this is what I love to do.  This is what makes me happy.  So Mom, here’s my return to the blog, and to honor this dumb blog’s number one fan, here is a post about her (pssst, that’s you, Mom).  

This is the eulogy I wrote for my Mother and read on Tuesday, July 9, 2019.  (I never know when to capitalize the ‘M’ in Mom or Mother, but I feel like this post necessitates constant capitalization.)  Also, if you don’t want to read this because it’s Friday and you don’t feel like reading something that’s not light and fun, I get it.  Don’t read it.  I’ll be back writing fun, dumb stuff about my maniac dog and the VP of Ops very, very soon.  If you do feel like reading about this blog’s number one fan, though, here it is:

No one in my family every saw my Mom run.  I’m not exaggerating.  Over the past week this has come up a few times, and we’ve all sat around doing our best to close our eyes tight and remember ONE TIME when ONE OF US saw my Mom running.  We can’t do it.

There was a time when I was around 6 or 7 and my Mom made lasagna.  Being the picky eater that I was, for some reason, I decided I didn’t like lasagna as a little kid.  I wish I could go back to not liking lasagna in my 30s, but…anyway, I started pouting about the menu and my Mom told me that I could either eat the lasagna or go up to my room.  So I got up from the table and made my way upstairs.  When I got to about the top of the staircase, I heard that kitchen door fling back open and saw my Mom coming after me.  Evidently, that “choice” she gave me wasn’t really a choice.  Now she was moving quick-ish, but I still wouldn’t describe her movements as “running”…it was more “charging”.

Then there was the time I was playing football with my friend in the front yard, and I went deep.  He threw it, and I sprinted, keeping my eyes on the ball right up until I ran, face first into the metal hammock stand at the end of our yard.  I remember my Mom holding an ice-pack on my right eye while I laid on the couch, but no, I do not remember her running.

Or, there were the times we used to go to the Winnetka Fitness Center together when I was in High School and some in college.  I’d run for a few miles, go downstairs and lift for a bit, come back up and see her, the entire time she was walking on the treadmill.  After the workout, when I asked her how it went or when I’d overhear her talking to some other person about her workout that day, she’d say “good, I ran for a while.”  She didn’t.  She walked for a while.  I’m sorry Mom, but that was walking.

I don’t know, maybe my Mom didn’t even know what running was?  Being in a family where my Dad has run almost every day I’ve known him, my sister would run on treadmills next to me, my brothers played sports and included jogging in their workouts, her aversion to the action is surprising.  I mean, I ran a MARATHON and dedicated it to her, and she STILL didn’t seem to quite grasp what running was.

And I think that’s what made her the bravest person I’ll ever know.  While I’m aware that this whole “not running”-thing initially sounds like a negative, I’m coming to understand that it was anything but.  Why?  Because this whole “not running”-thing also extends to the toughest moments in and around her life.  Whether big or small, soul-crushing or seemingly innocuous, my Mom didn’t run from even the slightest whiff of a tough situation.  Nope.  She stood in there, while others sprinted away, and shared her gifts: the bravery to show up anywhere, and the skill to tell anyone exactly what they needed to hear in their moment of need.

As a teenager, when her Dad got sick, she took care of him.  When a friend needed a babysitter, she became those kids’ second mother.  When her 20-something year old son would call her whining dramatically about how some girl didn’t like him back, she’d listen, and as easy as it would have been, didn’t make fun of me…I mean him.   When her older brother was killed, she consoled her Mother.  When a neighbor’s dog would die, she would send food and flowers.  When a waitress didn’t have plans on Thanksgiving, she had her over.  When a nurse would come in to give her pain meds, she would ask that nurse how SHE was doing.

That is bravery. Look, she fought that stupid disease time and time and time again, and exuded as much in-your-face bravery and strength as I’ve ever seen in real life. The kind of bravery that is played on “Sportscenter”.  The highlight reel of brave acts includes: fighting disease, chasing down the bad guy, running into a fire.  But as I’ve thought about my Mom, what I find even more impressive and inspiring, is that subtle brand of bravery she displayed every single day of her life.  She didn’t run away from anything, big or small, that may have been hard or uncomfortable.  She was so aware of struggle and hardship, that whenever ANYONE, ANYWHERE close to her was having even the most minor of issues, she’d be there. For someone who didn’t run, she sure got to where she was needed fast.

I think back now to how easy it was to roll my eyes or almost be annoyed that she was so giving, because it made me feel guilty for not being as good of a person.  The easy thing, the cowardly thing, is to justify a reason to run away.  I’ve done this.  I bet most people in here have done this.  My Mom?  Remember, nobody has ever seen her run.  She once went across the country to be with a friend she hasn’t spoken to in years, but who was currently going through a divorce, and I remember thinking “come on, Mom!  Gimme a break!”  Would I have been there for that person?  Or, would I have justified a logical excuse for me to take the easy way out?  I would have taken the easy way out, blamed that former friend for losing touch and chalked his or her distress up to “something that doesn’t affect me directly”.  My Mom, on the other hand, was allergic to the easy way out.  She’d take a sip of Pinot Grigio, snarl at the camera and charge right into that fire.

So now it’s my turn to see flames and embrace the heat because that’s the standard that she set.  I plan to honor my mother’s legacy, by being more present for everyone around me.  Her legacy will inspire me to become a better husband, brother, friend, neighbor, co-worker, acquaintance, passerby on the street, you name it.  Her legacy will inspire me to become a truly brave person.

I’ve been going through my Mom’s facebook page lately, and I saw that she posted a quote not too long ago that read: “As a parent, it’s my priority to help get you into Heaven, not Harvard.”  Well Mom, I didn’t get into Harvard, and I’m gonna make sure I get into heaven.  I figure the only way is to follow your lead.  I love you to the Moon and back, Mom.  You earned your place up there by having your priorities in line…better make sure you save me a seat.

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HOT CHICAGO RESTAURANT REVIEW #1

OUR WORLD: 

You know those restaurants that you hear about, for what seems like years, that you always tell yourself “I gotta check that place out!”?  I’ve gone to some of those recently and I want to tell you about them in a very honest, borderline dumb, way.  If, like me, you hate Yelp because you used to work in restaurants, I’m here to offer some guidance for the HOT Chicago Restaurant Scene.  Whenever I ask my friends about a restaurant, I’m not looking for a poetic, Bourdain-like breakdown of flavors and the social injustices that went into creating the circumstances necessary for said restaurant to thrive.  I’m basically looking for a caveman-esque answer to “Eat there? Should I?”    I give you the first Jimmyschair “Hot Chicago Restaurant Review for Cavemen”

Au Cheval:

You’re going to wait.  This is the number one issue I hear from people who have been here and want to be Johnny Contrarian by talking about something other than the show-stopper burger.  Why complain about something you KNOW is going to happen?  Do you complain about getting wet when you take a shower?  “I had to wait 3 hours!  For a burger!”  Okay…and hasn’t everyone you’ve EVER talked to about Au Cheval told you about the wait?  If the answer is ‘no’, you’re either lying or from planet ‘Yeah-Probably-Just-Lying’.  Either way, that excuse doesn’t fly anymore because I’m outing all of you “I had to wait!”-crybabies.  If you don’t want to wait, go to a shitty restaurant that nobody wants to go to.  Problem solved.  If you want to eat the best burger you’re ever going to have?  Grow up, shut up, and have a few pops after putting your name in at Au Cheval.

Here’s an overlooked positive to SURVIVING the wait at Au Cheval: you’ll get to tell your friends a dramatic tale of enduring hours spent sitting and drinking beers next door before getting in.  If you’re looking for a way to jump into your story of heroism, feel free to steal this starter: “Technically, I was never in the military, but…”  By the time you get that magical “your table is ready” text from the Au Cheval host, you’ll have a comfy buzz and a new chapter for your memoir, entitled: “Overcoming Adversity.”

Once inside, you’re in a comfortable diner that is more effortlessly cool.  The servers know their shit and are nicer than the gatekeeper hosts and hostesses–probably because they’re tipped more.  Also, when 94% of your customers are just going to order a burger, how hard is it?  (I say this as a former-server, which means I’m allowed to say this.  If you haven’t served before you are never allowed to critique servers.  EVER.)  It’s dark enough in there to hide how fat you’re going to feel after the meal, and lit in a way that will disguise your double chin with shadows.  It’s a magic trick that adds to the experience; a burger place that protects you from the shame associated with eating a burger and fries.  WHAT A CONCEPT!

Are there other things on the menu?  Sure, but who gives a shit?  You’re going here for the burger.  Oh, the drinks!  I heard they have craft beer!  Yeah, they do and I love beer, but that’s not why you’re here so don’t fill up on anything other than the burger.  (This is a concept I’m just coming around to in my early-30s.  Drinking beer fills you up and, therefore, takes away from the enjoyment of the meal itself.  CALL ME JIMMY COLUMBUS AFTER THAT DISCOVERY!) Get the single with the egg on it.  I think the double is too much, and the bacon distracts from how amazing the burger is by itself.  You’ve had good bacon before, you haven’t had a burger like this.  I don’t care about overhyping it or whatever excuse you want to find to sound different after eating here.  It’s the best burger I have ever had.    And the fries?  They come with a garlic aioli dipping sauce that you’ll think about leaving    your wife for.  “Honey, I’ve realized that you can never make me as happy as the garlicky dipping sauce at Au Cheval.  It’s okay, you can take the kids.”

I don’t remember or care if they have dessert.  Probably.  Whatever, you’re so euphoric after the burger and fries that you just want to go home so you can go to sleep and dream about the meal you just had.  The only thing that makes it better is when you see the check.  Look, it’s not cheap for a “burger place,” but not all burger place’s are created equal.  I compare the feeling after eating here to the impressed feeling I get after eating at a fancy steakhouse.   Unfortunately, that steakhouse feeling is quickly murdered by the   steakhouse check–“do you offer payment plans?”  Here, the check is manageable enough that you can pay for you and your wife without secretly hating her for the rest of the night.

CAVEMAN REVIEW = Food good.  Price good.  You happy.  Go.

MY WORLD:

So I’ve gotten fat again.  It has been a slow process, but I did it.  I’d like to credit my late-summer sprained ankle for giving me the excuse I needed to not work out.  When I did get back into “working out,” I made the decision that running is really hard and so I was gonna not do that.  The way I framed this decision, however, was more “I’m going to start lifting.”  My thinking was that if I could make my shoulders and arms big enough, it would make my growing stomach look smaller in relation.  What I didn’t account for, stupidly, is that bigger arms don’t mask a puffier face.  AND!  I’m not secure or rich enough to buy all new clothes.  Unfortunately, when you get bigger, your clothes get tighter.  It’s actually bullshit, if you ask me.

Now I’ve gotta do the thing where I run more and eat less.  IT’S NOT FAIR!  I hopped on the treadmill last night and wanted to stop after three seconds when I saw a fat dude next to me going into mile 6.  Not working for him!  Running sucks, no question.  But, you know what sucks more?  Worrying that your thighs are going to explode through the legs of your pants while at work.  (That was me, yesterday.)  Or, when you’re sitting with friends at a bar and you’re wondering if you can unbutton your pants without anyone noticing.  It’s a tricky maneuver that risks looking like you’re playing with yourself in public.  Have I pulled it off before?  Of course, but then I was faced with the fear of having to get up with the possibility that my pants could totally unzip and fall down.  Was this an event on “Fear Factor”?

Anyway, I’m gonna eat like a lame for a while now and get back into running.  Great, can’t wait for my legs to hurt every morning.  Shocked that I got fat after reading me write about about how I’ve thought about leaving my wife for garlic aioli?  ME TOO!  Last night I ran and didn’t have a beer, though, so I may be thin again.  I’ll keep you posted.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The first two episodes of the new “True Detective”!!!  Mahershala Ali is putting on an acting performance for the ages (if you’re watching it, you get that ‘pun’, right?  Yeah, I’m proud of it.)

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

“The Bachelor” and “Vanderpump Rules” are off to very ‘meh’ starts this year.  I’m still watching kinda’, but I’m close to bailing.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I zeroed out my account last weekend.  Betting against the Patriots at home was something that I regretted the second I made the bet.  It was also really fun that Andrew Luck showed up with a dead arm in Kansas City.  Thanks guys!

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.

 

We Know Why All Of You Are Moving Away From Us

MY WORLD:

You got a problem with me?  No?  So you must have a problem with The VP then, right?  No?  Or, maybe ‘yes’, but you don’t want to admit that out loud because she’s more sensitive than I am and could start crying in public? (Bragging about being less sensitive than a southern sorority girl is interesting…)  Let me put this out there, loud and clear: THE VP AND I ARE SICK AND GODDAMN TIRED OF PEOPLE MOVING OUT OF CHICAGO TO GET AWAY FROM US!  Matta’ fack, The VP of Ops and I are OFFICIALLY sick and goddamn tired of people moving away from Chicago without admitting that it’s because of us.  Jobs, kids, family, blah, blah, blah.  Cut the fucking shit.  If you’re close to The VP and I, and you decide to move away from Chicago, guess what?  WE’RE TAKING IT PERSONALLY!

Lately, a lot of people that The VP and I consider VERY CLOSE have decided to move across the country and, being the reasonable adults that we are (reasonable, narcissistic, whatever) we have dealt with all these moves with the required forced smiles and fake enthusiasm.  “Disappointed that I’m only going to get to see you once a year and have to compete with the rest of the people who want to see you while you’re in town for 7 hours? NOT AT ALL!  We couldn’t be more excited for you!”  Being a reasonable adult requires an insane amount of lying.

First it was both of our best friends (like, they’re married to each other…it’s dumb), then it was her best Chicago friend, and now some people very close to me (secret people) have decided to get the hell away from us. Yeah, we said all the right things like “we’re happy for you,” and “that’ll give us a reason to visit ________-town!” but you better KNOW that’s NOT where our mind first went.  Instead, when we said “we’re happy for you,” we were thinking “we know it’s because of us”; and “that’ll give us a reason to visit,” when put through the truth-machine would translate to “we’re gonna get you!”

In an effort to get out in front of this growing “We Gotta Ditch Jimmy and The VP”-movement, I would like to address the issues those we are close to MUST be having with us.

The VP does wear that black fake-silk shirt too often.

I’m risking my marriage by writing about this.  While trying to think of what material The VP’s go-to shirt is, I messed up BAD and just asked her “hey, you know that black shirt you wear all the time?  What’s that material called?”  Blouse material questions are not commonplace in Casa De Pomerantz, so Sherlock VP’s suspicions were raised.  After investigating further, by looking at me grinning from behind my laptop, The VP knew what was at stake if by answering.  “Are you going to write about that?  Please don’t.”  She plead with me.  It wasn’t a “please don’t” with a smirk or followed by a “I’m so happy I married someone who keeps me grounded”-chuckle.  Not at all, actually.  She made the scared face, furrowing her brow and not breaking eye-contact with me while she repeated “please don’t” at least 4 times before leaving for work.

What The VP must remember, however, is that she married a genuine bad boy who was born to accumulate student loan debt AND test limits.  Therefore, I must stay true to myself.  My truth today is that The VP wears her fake silk black blouse too much and that must have something to do with people close to us (closies) moving out of Chicago.  There’s no way around it, this has to be the main reason you moved or are moving away.  Before I go on, please take a moment to take in how brave that was of me.  Wait!  I think you need one more moment to really get it.  She’s gonna be like super-pissed, guys.  Really think about my sacrifice…my courage…my truth….

To the issue at hand, we know you’re moving away because you’re tired of setting up double dates with us and having The VP show up in the same fake-silk blouse every single time.  While I am thoughtful enough to rotate through my four hot-dad quarter-zips, The VP bitches about how I never buy her anything before settling on the same fake-silk blouse that, her words here, “I wear so much.”  Looking back, I realize that the looks on your faces as we met you at the restaurants said it all: “Jesus, the fake-silk black AGAIN?!?! Does she even own another shirt?”

The hostesses and servers must have been talking about it as well, which would explain the whispering they do behind the bar and the looks I get for loudly asking “ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT WHAT WE’RE WEARING?”  I used to think that you just didn’t like that I was trying to forcibly eavesdrop on the restaurant staff, but now I know it’s because you were trying to hide that they too were talking about The VP’s fake-silk black blouse (I’m tired of writing that out, so let’s call it the FSBB).  Had the staff, just once, responded to my question about whether they were whispering about what we were wearing, we would have unearthed the whole cover-up.  Everyone knew The VP was wearing the FSBB too much, but was too embarrassed to say so.  The servers I aggressively questioned gave me the “you’re a creep”-eyes, and you moved to Nashville.  Two different ways of responding to the same issue: that goddamn FSBB.

Getting this out in the open feels good.  For me, for you, for those hostesses and servers.  Probably not for The VP, but that’s the price I’m willing to pay.  And here’s a deal I’m willing to make: I will kidnap the FSBB and film me giving it a proper Viking funeral if you agree to move back.  Just think, the FSBB in a tiny boat set aflame drifting atop Lake Michigan, never to be seen in a Wicker Park or Bucktown restaurant again.  Think about it.

It’s true, I don’t truly know how to shave.

The issue is the part where my jaw meets my neck and how I tried to shave at a 90 degree angle going from neck into jawline.  We all know it.  You especially, it appears.  Being Mr. Accountability, I’m not going to blame my dad for not showing me how to properly edge my beard when I was young enough to learn new things.  Instead, I’m going to say that no, I do not feel confident as a face shaver.  Further, I know that my lack of skills created many a time sitting next to me where, upon investigating my profile, aggravation at my decision to go for a 90 degree cut had to ruin the rest of your night.  “WHY WOULDN’T HE JUST ROUND IT OFF?!?!”

Better yet, why would a grown man grow a beard if he KNEW he couldn’t properly care for it?  It’s a question I struggle with daily, trust me.  While I looked good when I was clean shaven in my wedding pictures (good? Jimmy, you looked like an undiscovered runway model in those pics) I have put some face-weight on since and, therefore, have leaned on my beard to give me the jawline that my jaw can no longer give me.  (No joke, by writing that, I just hurt my own feelings.)  So I’m forced to ask myself this question: who am I without a jawline?  Not the man I want to be, that’s who.

Instead of devoting myself to avoiding York peppermint patties and bread, I have gone the beard route.  This route, however, requires learned shaving techniques and tools such as a proper trimmer.  I possess none of these.  My shaving technique revolves around sharp angles, and my trimmer is from the bottom shelf of CVS–proper, it certainly is not.  That left you with a choice to either have an awkward “what’s the deal with the right angle in your beard?”-confrontation with me, or simply move pack up all your things, find new jobs, and move across the country.  Who am I kidding? You had no choice, you had to move.  If I go to Bed, Bath & Beyond, buy a top of the line trimmer, and sign up for “how to shave like a grown man”-classes at my local YMCA, will you move back?

We could keep our place cleaner.

You noticed the clothes pile leaking out of the laundry closet, didn’t you?  The top of the ceiling fan in our bedroom?!?! No, don’t tell me you saw the surge protector under our TV stand too!!!  I’m out of excuses.  We’re out of excuses.  Cleaning, dusting especially, is an issue that has plagued us (mostly The VP, but I’m not gonna say that because I’m Mr. Accountability) since we moved in together.  The 87 seconds spent in front of our door, where we’d explain why our place was in the shape that it was in, was as hard on you as it was us.  We knew you didn’t believe that “it’s really never like this.”

Lying to closies is unacceptable and we lied.  Our place is like that.  NOT ALL THE TIME! NOT ALL THE TIME! But, like, almost most of the time it’s not in peak condition, with respect to cleanliness.  As Mr. Accountability, I will not make excuses like “it’s tough to put anything away when you live in a place without much storage and The VP refuses to throw away seven years worth of ‘Southern Living’ magazines.”  I repeat, I will NOT make excuses like “when the VP’s idea of ‘doing the dishes’ means putting dishes in the sink and ‘soaking’ them instead of simply putting them in the dishwasher, like a normal human, it makes our place look more cluttered than it should.”  Not going to make those type of excuses because the buck stops with me, Mr. Accountability.

Much to your surprise, I’m sure, we do own a vacuum AND a duster-thing.  With those tools in hand, I promise to have our place ready for your arrival if you ever decide to move back.  I’ll even let you check the surge protector under the TV stand in the living room–I’ve got a disinfectant wipe with “surge protector” written all over it.  Protecting my closies from surges is not enough, I know that now and vow to also protect my closies from sneeze-inducing dust.  God bless you, no more.

Belle

Here’s where we’re at with Mrs. PsychoKillerFluffyFace: there’s a chance the other dogs in our apartment building drive her to do something drastic…like overdose on CBD.  If that doesn’t happen, all you have to do is give me “the look” next time you’re in town.  Once you give me the “we’ll move back if Belle disappears”-look, I’ll know to put a key under my boot outside my front door.  From there, whether or not someone finds that key, brings Belle to a farm out in the country, and robs our place of things such as a stack of “Southern Living” magazines in the closet off the living room, is beyond my control.  I simply left a key…

OUR WORLD:

Cody Parkey is on “The Today Show” this morning and that makes me want to puke.  Misplaced sympathy is DISGUSTING.  DISGUSTING!  HOW ABOUT THE KIDS AT THE BORDER?!?! THE ELDERLY IN PUERTO RICO?!?! THE PEOPLE LEFT BEHIND BY CLOSIES WHO MOVE AWAY FROM CHICAGO FOR REASONS THAT WERE FIXABLE?!?!?!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The Chicago skyline is tough to see from Nashville, and Austin, and Arizona, isn’t it?

skyline

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Having to watch the Eagles play this weekend.  I’m still not over this.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I’m going huge on the Saints, then probably taking Chargers, Rams, and Colts.  I’m sure I’ll go 0 for 4 and start yelling about how “if Parkey made a GODDAMN KICK, we’d be playing the Rams right now!” at some point.

(My account is currently at: $40.19)

K bye.

I’m Not Exercising, but It’s Not My Fault

*Quick disclaimer: Remember when I wrote about how I was shot in the head by the Chicago Bears starting kicker?  That was like so so long ago that I can’t even remember it! Tehehehehe!  I just want you to know that I’m okay.  Unfortunately, due to doctor-patient legalese that I don’t want to bore you with, I can’t get into specifics like if I was actually shot in the head with a gun by Cody Parkey.  Just know that I’m going to be okay and I WOULD get into it, but I don’t want to be tied up in court cases for the foreseeable future.  Lawyers, amirite?!?!  

OUR WORLD:

For most of you, now is the time of year you’re getting back into shape, looking in the mirror and saying things like “this year’s gonna be different”, getting more serious about your career, and showing off all the new clothes you got for Christmas.  What a hopeful time!  But then, there are people like…well, me.  The kind of people who went to the gym yesterday, realized they forgot to pack gym shorts, and used that as a very very acceptable excuse to then go home without working out.  Do you live 2 blocks from the gym too?  Did you also then drink a beer while watching “The Bachelor” on DVR?!?! MY PEOPLE!

In an effort to help all of my fellow Chairmen out there (whoa, who wants to start a “Chairmen” fan club?!?!) I wanted to help you out with things you can watch and listen to while you’re at home and not at the gym but only because you forgot to pack your shorts.    Don’t worry, we all know had you packed your shorts, you’d be pounding that treadmill like all those try-hards clogging your Facebook feed with their #NewYearNewMe selifes.

THE JIMMYSCHAIR “DAMN, I FORGOT TO PACK MY GYM SHORTS, AND I CAN’T WORKOUT IN WORK PANTS, SO I’M HEARTBROKEN TO BE FORCED TO JUST GO HOME AND DO THIS INSTEAD” LIST 

WATCH THIS:  “Bodyguard” (Netflix Show)

The first half of the first episode of this show is, quite possibly, the most exciting first half of an episode of television I have ever seen.  Quite?  You know what, I’m gonna upgrade that to ‘VERY quite’.  Aside from looking to your significant other and saying things like “holy fucking butt!” you will find yourself wondering where the main dude is from.  He has one of those “I know you”-faces and it’ll take a minute.  Then your wife will look it up on IMDB, even though you ask her to “let me think about it,” and tell you that it’s the Game of Thrones guy!  The one that….?! YEAH! THAT ONE!

I know how hard it is to get into a new show these days, with all of the options out there, but this one has an easy litmus test.  If you watch the first 15 minutes and aren’t into it, then pull the ripcord because you’re A LOON WHO COULDN’T RECOGNIZE GREAT TELEVISION IF IT SHOT YOU IN THE HEAD LIKE CODY PARKEY SHO—(REDACTED BY JIMMY’S LEGAL TEAM)—and now people are feeling bad for him?!?!?!  Sorry, I lost control for a second.  Just watch the first 15 minutes of the first episode and judge for yourself.

Oh yeah, quickly, I would like to officially announce that I have flipped my long held belief that watching a show with subtitles STINKS.  There’s an exception to that rule: if the main characters have thick accents, subtitles do not stink.  In fact, they enhance the viewing experience because you’ll no longer have to rewind every 3.7 seconds when your wife goes “wait, what did he just say?”  Trust me, aside from being able to know exactly what Andy Accent just said, you’re also going to avoid many “well maybe if you’d just pay attention and stop looking at your phone, you’d know what he said”-fights with your significant other.

What is the show actually about?  Look it up on IMDB.  It doesn’t matter, though, I’m telling you it’s good.

LISTEN TO THIS:  “Bag Man” (Podcast)

If you’re looking to not think about sports because the kicker for your favorite team recently missed a kick, forcing your favorite team out of the playoffs before they were supposed to be out, and then ended up shooting yo–(REDACTED BY JIMMY’S LEGAL TEAM)–and you’re like, how do people still feel bad for this guy?!?! Then I am BEGGING you to listen to this podcast hosted by Rachel Maddow.  Not a fan of Rachel Maddow?  First off, that’s a red flag that you’re a red jag (I’m really proud of that line and am going to take a lap around the apartment to celebrate it) but, also, you don’t have to be a fan of hers to enjoy this.  However you feel politically, there’s no argument that she has a nice voice.  It’s soothing and smart without being too NPR-ish (why does everyone on NPR whisper-talk?!?!)  

So you settle in with a smart, soothing voice to help you forget the third workout in a row you’ve missed because you forgot to pack those damn shorts again!!! From there, it’s an incredibly fascinating deep dive into the story surrounding Richard Nixon’s VP (not his wife), Spiro Agnew.  Have you heard of this dude before?  Oh…you have? Yeah, me too.  Totally.  Spiro? I thought you said ‘Steven’!  Yeah, I know Spiro.  It was confusing cuz I was all like “I definitely know a Spiro Agnew, but I don’t know a Steven Agnew.”

Anyway, as we all know, Spiro Agnew, was Nixon’s VP throughout his first term and up until right before the Watergate shit REALLY hit the fan.  He ended up resigning because of…well, people weren’t really sure but it seemed like it was kinda related to some minor tax evasion issue.  The real story of why he actually resigned was lost in the glut of history, and that’s what this podcast delves into.  Why was Spiro Agnew the first VP to ever resign while in office?  And, folks, it was not just because of some minor tax evasion charge.  We’re talking conspiracy, “I can’t believe this happened in real life”-type shit.  It’s intoxicating.

The VP and I listened to this entire series while driving down to Mississippi for Christmas and it made me love sitting in my car for hours on end.  Since listening to this podcast, I have been obsessed with everything related to Watergate and Nixon.  History repeats itself y’all, and I can’t wait to write a review 20 years from now about “Bag Man 2: Trump Did Bad Stuff!”

COOK THIS:  Gorgonzola-Stuffed Steak Roll-Ups

Every year when The VP and I head down to her family’s in Mississippi, I cook a meal for everybody one night.  It makes me feel like less of a piece of shit for eating all their food for a week, and The VP gets to offer to help me in front of her Mom (I decline this help because I don’t need help.  Ever.)  Last year I made Chicken Parmesan and spaghetti, but this year I wanted to step it up a notch; a last ditch effort to get everyone to be impressed with me despite my wardrobe.

So I looked up a fancy recipe and this one was the perfect combination of looking like it took a TON of skill and effort, while not actually taking that much skill or effort.  BINGO! Here’s what you do:

–Get a flank steak that’s butterflied.  If you get one that’s not butterflied already, GOOD LUCK PAL!

–Sprinkle kosher salt and ground black pepper all over the steak.  The higher you hold your hand while sprinkling, the cooler you look.

–Across the middle, line the steak with gorgonzola cheese, fire-roasted chopped red peppers, and arugula.  You’re going to roll this shit up, so don’t go nuts with how much of each you put in.

–Time to roll that steak over the cheese, peppers and arugula.  This is kinda gross as you really have to manhandle the meat to do this properly, but that’s what badass professional chefs do.  Word to the wise; once rolled, you’re going to need to tie this bad boy.  Have 6-8 long pieces of kitchen twine cut before you start to roll the steak.

–Once rolled, tie it up with the kitchen twine.  Think one tie every 1.5 inches along the length of the steak roll.  Tie it especially at the ends of the steak.  You’re trying to keep all the gooey cheesiness inside.

–Cut this steak roll into like 4 equal pieces.  Make sure not to cut too close to the ties, so as not to undo all the cool badass chef stuff you’ve done already.  You’re going to sear these.

–Once cut, get a cast iron skillet SCORCHING hot with olive oil.  I’m talking the kind of hot that sets off the smoke alarm in your Ukrainian Village, one-bedroom apartment (just me?)  You’re going to sear these steak pinwheels, cut-side down, for about 2 minutes each side.  Once done. Pop the skillet with the steak pinwheels into the oven (350 degrees) for about 10 more minutes.

–Take out of the oven, cover with foil on a plate, and let rest for 5 minutes before cutting the twine and serving.

–Serve and act all nonchalant about what you just did.

MY WORLD:

With my head recovering from–(REDACTED BY JIMMY’S LEGAL TEAM)–I wanted to talk about something a little lighter today.  And by lighter, I mean food that makes you heavier!  I give you the Official 2019 Jimmyschair Fast Food Chain Restaurants Ranking (Pizza not allowed):

  1.  McDonald’s:  Best chemicals in the game.  I’m not debating this.
  2.  Chick Fil A:  There’s no denying those biscuits.  Also, the service is just delightful!
  3.  Newks:  Southern sandwich/pizza chain.  The Newks Q is all I want to eat when I’m visiting the VPs fam.  Like, every meal.  I’m not exaggerating that I suggest it for every meal.
  4.  In-N-Out:  I was a hater for no good reason for way too long.  The cheeseburger is so good, it doesn’t matter that the fries suck.
  5.  Potbelly:  Chicken salad sandwich with bacon. FOGETTABOUDIT!
  6.  Starbucks: their sandwiches are tremendous.  Also, don’t sleep on their chocolate chip cookies.
  7. Taco Bell: Had it for the first time last year.  What a revelation.  The taco with the Dorito shell is a game-changer.
  8. Kane’s Chicken:  Best sauce in the entire universe.
  9. Auntie Anne’s:  Limited menu? Yes.  But is there a better smell in the world than those pretzels?
  10. Jimmy John’s:  Their bread is incredible and has become my go-to sandwich spot when I’m hungover.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The VP and I watched “The Bachelor” last night and it was just okay, which is why I didn’t write a full-on review.  This season is all about how the bachelor, Colton, is a virgin.  It’s weird.  There was a part that made me laugh really hard though, and so I recorded it.  Chris Harrison, the host, was talking to Colton about how people have reacted to him being a virgin.  As Colton went through some insults hurled his way, Chris Harrison forced his way in with a “that you’re not a man!” and it got me REAL GOOD.  Enjoy.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you wake up with a crick in your neck and you have to do weird neck stretches all day that make you look like the bad guy from “Men In Black”.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I made a bet with a friend of mine that the Cody Parkey will not be on the Bears opening day roster next year.  This means that he now has to root for the Bears to keep the person who just ruined the most fun season of the past 10 years.  HAVE FUN WITH THAT PAL!

K bye.

 

Gonna Be A Tough 2019 for Nerds and Jerks

MY WORLD:

I’m four days into 2019 and I haven’t made any resolutions yet, which must mean that whatever I accomplish this year is gravy, right?  Like, my contract with this year is blank, so if I devote all my daytime energy to not rolling my eyes during my job, and all my nighttime energy to eating all the fun-sized candy that the VPs Mom gave me for Christmas, then I’m Gucci, no?  (No Jimmy, that would mean you made a resolution to be a fat piece of shit this year.)  Well, just in case becoming the unapologetic fatso I dream of one day becoming isn’t enough, I figure I should make a few resolutions.

Before I get into that, though, can we touch quickly on how people actually go about making resolutions?  The process I usually “make resolutions” goes as such:

  1. Wake up INSANELY hungover on January 1.
  2. Lay on the couch all day watching reality television that I can’t really enjoy because my brain feels like it’s trying to escape the body that I so badly abused the night before.
  3. Get really scared about going to work on January 2 when I go from couch to bed at night.
  4. Wake up depressed as hell on January 2 only to get more depressed while getting ready to go to work.
  5. Talk to myself on the drive to work and say something along the lines of “this is the year I’m going to finally _____.”  BOOM! RESOLUTION!

When I went into writing that list, I was thinking “people that actually sit down on Jan. 1 and write out their goals for 2019 are so dumb and lame!”  Unfortunately, now that I wrote out my resolution process, it appears that I am the dumb and those who actually put focused energy into goal setting are…my enemies. (Pssst!  Calling someone “A dumb” is a killer burn that takes a moment to sink in, but hits harder than post-hibachi diarrhea when it does) Yeah, that’s right, if I’m a dumb lazy, then the smart and motivated are my natural enemies.  Wow, glad I finally figured that out!  (I wanted to make a joke about how this must be the feeling Einstein had when he figured out E = MC squared but then I quickly remembered that I have never known what the fuck E or M or C stand for so I passed on that joke.  Credit to my decision making skills for passing on that joke.)

In an effort to piss off my newfound enemies, who will be referred to as “Nerks” going forward (combo of Nerd and Jerk…name-calling is the type of shit they can’t compete with me on), let’s dive into my “2019 resolutions I could have made, but didn’t officially so now I’ll make them but if I break them it doesn’t really count.”

I will get off cable.

Whoa, first one is a real shot across the bow of all Nerks! DON’T DO ‘EM LIKE THAT, JIM! Hey Nerks, guess what?  I don’t need cable to watch all my shows.  I CAN WATCH THEM ON A CHEAPER STREAMING SERVICE LIKE HULU OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT!!! (Wait…so he’s not weening himself off television…he’s just finding another way to get it?  Yeah, it’s like an alcoholic who says they’re done with whiskey…so they can get into vodka.) Over Christmas break, I was around a good amount of human beings who were (and still are!) younger than me, and the thing that became INSANELY OBVIOUS is that you are a Top Tier Dumb if you still pay for the “hook it up to that thing in your wall”-cable.

The VP had a couple of 10 year old cousins who talked to me for like ten million minutes about how much YouTube they watch…and…hold on, my dog is throwing up.

Yeah, that was real, my dog threw up right when I got to that part.  Don’t worry, though, she made sure to do it all over the carpet and not the hardwood floor because she’s thoughtful.  Then, when The VP came over to “supervise”, aka stand and watch, how I was cleaning up said vomit she started dry heaving.  I can’t wait to have kids!

Back to my point, after speaking to super young and, thus, super hip people, it is clear that the only people that still have cable are old and not hip.  Since I’m already fat and lazy, I can’t afford to add old and not hip to that combo.  So I did some serious research (as in typing “Hulu Live TV” into Google) and have discovered that I can pay less to watch just as much television as I do now.

Hey Nerks, that’s called finding a deal AND I DIDN’T HAVE TO WEAR DORKASS GLASSES TO FIND IT!  (1 point Jimmy, 0 points Nerks)

I will throw out all of the clothes that I bought or were bought for me when I was in college.

I have 3 sets of clothes.  One, are the four outfits I have that are current and fit and look good when I wear them.  I wear these outfits about 73% of the time that you see me.  The second set are my fat clothes.  These clothes are mostly from Old Navy and were bought when I was at my biggest about 2.5 years ago and include: big loose khakis, big loose quarter-zips from the Polo outlet store, and, you guessed it, my big, puffy North Face coat that is so big you’re unable to tell if it’s me or the jacket.

The third, and final set of clothes that I have are the clothes from my college years.  Most of these clothes are very tired looking and, currently, too tight for me to wear.  However, every few years I’ll convince myself that I can get back into them if I get back to kicking my ass in the gym.  So I’ll kick my ass into the gym for a few months, wiggle my legs into my 31 waist college jeans, not be able to button them but look at myself in the mirror and say “but close!”  Then I’ll ease off the gym and never actually get in good enough shape to fit into those GODDAMN COOL-GUY SKINNY JEANS THAT I WAS ABLE TO PULL OFF IN 2006!

*I would like to point out that by throwing these clothes out, I am not conceding that I will never be super fit again.  I am simply becoming a minimalist and that’s, like, super impressive on many, many levels.  (1 normal point, 1,000 multi-level points Jimmy, 0 normal points, 0 multi-level points Nerks)

I will get my hair cut before it enters the “if you don’t wear a hat, everyone who sees you today is going to think less of you”-stage of hair length.

I’m about 2 months away from that time at the moment.  For the past few years, I get my hair cut about twice a year.  That’s not a joke.  I get it cut, like it for a few weeks, and then slowly, but surely convince myself that if I really try, I can pull off the “Bradley Cooper in ‘A Star is Born'”-hair.  Unfortunately, my hair does this thing where it…doesn’t look good when it’s long.  Once it enters this “not looking good”-phase, I normally toss a hat on every day to accentuate my sweet hair wings, leaving onlookers to ponder how amazing the hair under the hat must look, considering the hair that’s escaping the hat is so flow.

But then, this thing happens where I can’t wear a hat like: a funeral, or a wedding, or a meeting with a real successful person who thinks hats are a sign of weakness.  So I have to go hatless and I start getting looks and comments like “your hair is long.”  I know what that means friendo.  “Your hair is long,” really means “you’re too old and your hair isn’t good enough to pull off this look.”  Well in 2019, I’m not even gonna allow you to drop a passive-aggressive “your hair is long” on me.  Get ready to not even think about my hair!

(To Gajillion Points Jimmy, Deadzone 3000 Nerks)

I will write a minimum of 3 Jimmyschair pieces per week.

LET’S LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The podcast “Slow Burn” is super addicting!  I’m listening to Season 1 right now all about “Watergate” and I can’t get enough of it.  Nixon had issues y’all!

LET’S HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When your dog throws up on the carpet and your wife starts dry-heaving so you tell her to “cool it” and then YOU’RE THE BAD GUY!  DON’T MIND ME, JUST SOPPING UP OUR DOG’S VOMIT WITH YOUR OVER-DRAMATIC DRY HEAVING AS THE SOUNDTRACK!!!!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Very up and down bowl season left me with a little over $22 in my account when Texas played Georgia on Tuesday night.  I put that last $22 on the Texas moneyline (+400) and BANG-A-FUCKIN-RANG!  Nothing is scarier than going up against someone with nothing to lose, and that was Super Hungover Jimmy vs. Bovada on Tuesday night.  Thoughts and prayers out to Bovada, cuz I’m fucking back in a BIG WAY.

(Account currently at $104.67)

K, bye.

 

The VP and I Go Canoeing-PART TWO-(7/19/18)

MY WORLD:

*Quick recap of Part One for those of you who are too fucking lazy to read it:  The VP of Ops and I went canoeing last weekend.  Part one was about the 3 hour drive up to Bumfuck, Wisconsin.  I left off when I got out of the car and was massacred by mosquitoes.  Want more details? GO READ IT!

By the time the VP actually got out of the car, I was but a shell of myself.  Weary from the beating my body had taken in the 47 seconds I had been outside, the thought of shielding myself with The VP’s body not only crossed my mind, it consumed me.  If I draped her over my shoulders like a fashionable shawl, and began to spin, the helicopter motion of her limbs would SURELY fend off these hungry fuckhead squitoes.  The VP had a solid defense mechanism, however, which consisted of her giving me the “I can’t believe you made me come here”-stare.  Imagine two razorblades made of un-meltable ice; that’s what The VP’s eyes looked like.  I may have let out an audible “yikes” after being caught with that frigid glare.  Back to the squitoes, everything is going great!

We had to load our stuff on the back of a school bus before it drove us to the launch off point.  The VP carried like a friggin’ pillow and left the cooler, firewood, tent, chairs, and backpacks for me; this is the definition of not-fair and if my Mom was there I def would’ve squealed a “Mom! This is unfair!”  Unfortch, my Mom was too busy not sacrificing her body to the Squitoe Squad, so I was left to exhale audibly and then just carry everything because WE’RE NOT GETTING IN A FIGHT!  By the time I loaded our entire life into the back of this dumb bus, most of the seats were taken.  When I got to the VP’s seat, I felt like young Forrest Gump.  While not exactly Jenny-ish, the VP did scoot over and make room for my swollen ass.  Want a perfect remedy for a tense situation with your significant other?  Just make a fart noise.  I’m not sure if I did that or I just said something along the lines of “thanks for letting me carry everything!” but it did lighten the mood.  The Squitoes, like most cool people, wouldn’t be caught dead in a big yellow school bus, so we were safe for the time being.  As the bus took off and our itchies began to subside, I felt The VP begin to soften.  Beers and sun and NATURE were on the docket.  We were about to live that H.O.C. life (Hot Outdoorsy Couple).

We got to the launch point and after a minor altercation with the canoe organizer lady, we loaded our canoe and set off into the great wide open!  Oh, the minor altercation?  You know that thing when someone acts like you don’t have a reservation when you really do, so you respond with a brief, albeit passionate, fury?  Did the words “well that’s something that YOU need to figure out” come out of my mouth?  Yes.  But listen, The VP and I didn’t drive 3 hours, and get in a few almost-fights before donating our bodies to the Squitoe Squad to be turned away by some idiot woman holding a clipboard and wearing a life vest ON LAND.  Hey Lady, hard to drown in grass, dontchathink?!?!  Thankfully, my very brief, very minor outburst didn’t result in any sort of incarceration.  Before we knew it, we were on the water, paddling towards enshrinement in the H.O.C. Hall of Fame.

The weather was perfect out on the water and the Squitoes weren’t too bad out there either.  The VP and I basically took deet showers before we got on the canoe, and that seemed to work.  Lite beers began to flow and cheesy country music blared from our friend Bonesaw’s cool waterproof speaker.  (Am I the only one still using the speakers I bought for my dorm room in 2004?  Yes? Oh.)  When you’re out on the water, cheesy country music or Dave Matthews is all that you can listen to.  If someone had put on like Two Chainz or N’Sync, I would’ve swam over to their canoe to strangle the life out of them.  (Aggressive).  Give me Florida Georgia Line or give me death on the open waters.  The VP and I were having a ball, guys.  No joke.  Was I doing most of the paddling? Yes, of course.  However, if I wanted to earn my H.O.G. badge, I was going to have to blast my delts and traps until they begged for mercy.  When they did beg for mercy after roughly 4.1 minutes of paddling, though, I was forced to yell at The VP to “feel free to paddle ANYTIME!”  Flinging guilt trips your wife’s way is part of the H.O.G. lifestyle, correct?

We (mostly me, but whatever) paddled for a while and then hooked up with a few other canoes for a solid, hang ‘n float sesh.  My jokes were not landing the way I was hoping they would, however, and The VP seemed to revel in that.  After a few “I think we forgot to pack our motor”-jokes didn’t connect, she looked back and said “you’re really on fire today!”  I can’t lie, it stung and I’m still kinda’ pissed about it.  Don’t wedding vows also encompass supporting your husband’s desperate attempts at canoe humor?  If they don’t, they should, and if they do, then The VP owes me a heartfelt apology.  (VP?  Care to comment?)  Eventually, the hang ‘n float group loosened up and sent some (courtesy?) laughs my way.  WAS THAT SO HARD?!?!  We ate sandwiches and drank some beehs and bagged many many rays.  Excuse the following brag, but I tan like a Greek God; going from translucent white to burnt gold in a matter of minutes.  I skip the lobster red phase altogether; it’s a gift.

After a little more paddling (yes, still mostly by me, thanks for inquiring) we set up camp at a little sandy beach.  Are these called dunes?  I don’t know and I don’t want to look it up, but it was like our group’s own private beach.  It was sweet.  Everyone went off to set up their tents while it was still light out.  I guess I missed the memo that good friend Bonesaw wasn’t going to do everything for me, as he did last year, though.  I pretended that this wasn’t a MAJOR problem, but my brain was beginning to swell with anxiety.  I had no fucking idea how to put this tent together.  We borrowed it from other friends, and now was the time that we were supposed to act like a real H.O.C.  The instruction packet was stuck together because it got wet, so we had to go into “we can figure this out”-mode.  Wanna hear a secret? Both of us knew we weren’t going to be able to figure it out.

After scrambling for a solid 37 minutes of minor fights and little progress, our tent resembled a deflated bouncy castle.  It was sad, and looked even more sad because it was surrounded by fully erect, gorgeous tent houses.  I swear to god some of these other tents looked bigger and nicer than the apartment we pay almost two grand a month to live in.  The rest of the group was hanging and drinking in the water for a long enough time that I’m sure they had to be talking about and laughing about our tent issues.  The case for me becoming a H.O.G. had hit QUITE the speed bump.  Some would say, the point where I snapped “well, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing” at The VP is where my H.O.G. case was forever lost.  (Members of the H.O.G. jury all nod.)  We awkwardly gave up after we got the tent erect enough to sleep in, and shuffled our way to the water.  Our body language must’ve SCREAMED “everything is fine! Please don’t ask us about our tent!”

Vodka with strawberry lemonade was the drink of choice as the day progressed and, lemme tellya, they were going down SMOOTH.  I’m also pretty sure that I told everyone around us just how smooth they were going down no less than 87 times.  (We get it Jimmy, you’re drinking a lot of vodka in the sun!)  Nobody said anything about our shitty tent, which was nice.  Instead, the group was more focused on laughing and smiling AND LAUGHING.  Hey! I like to laugh!  The water felt great and the weather was perfect as The Golden Hour approached.

golden

When the sun went down, an actual H.O.G. in the group put together a gorgeous fire.  Honestly, if the H.O.G. jury had asked me to build a fire, I probably would’ve just rubbed some sticks together until my hands bled before running off to my deflated tent while yelling “everything is impossible out here!”  I was good at sitting near the fire, though, and eating a hot dog that someone else cooked.  (God you’re impressive, Jimmy.)  But when the sun finally went into hiding, the mosquitoes came back out.  And they were angry, guys.  Very, very angry.  The VP and I looked at each other one last time.  The itchies were back.  The rest of the night consisted of people trying to laugh in between slapping the back of their necks and saying stuff like “these mosquitoes!”  Fun fact, it’s hard to function as a human being when mosquitoes are building apartment complexes on your face.

Everyone went to bed relatively early as a result.  Our bed did consist of, uh, the sand because our blow-up mattress refused to blow up even after I yelled at it to “just work!”  I know, I couldn’t believe it either.  So The VP and I slept on the ground, using our damp backpacks as pillows.  How come nobody ever puts those camping pictures on Instagram?  No videos of you telling your wife to “stop sighing, there’s nothing we can do” on their stories?  I would’ve recorded some of this for you but my phone was already dead because I went canoeing with my battery at 16%.  Planning, it appears, is not my strong suit.

The VP and I awoke covered in a thin film of sweat and sand.  Guys, it gets hot outside in the summer.  Did you know that?  I made a bunch of the same sounds your dad makes when he gets up from his seat at Thanksgiving dinner.  A lot of “urghs” and “wugffs” and “jesus christ, my back”s.  Needless to say, I will not be perusing the “Wisconsin Sand”-section next time I go to Mattress World.  The VP refused to get up because she knew that meant packing up the tent and cleaning and getting back on the canoe for more paddling.  The VP was going into full-on “But I don’t wanna”-mode.  Good thing that I can be INCREDIBLY annoying when I want to be.  She snapped out of her fake slumber after a few Jimmy fingers went up her nose.  (Surprisingly few boogs in there FYI.)  

Nobody talked much in the morning because we were all tired and covered in mosquito bites.  One guy in the group just looked like a human mosquito bite; I’m pretty sure King Squitoe swallowed him whole at some point in the night.  It’s not fun doing your best impression of an air traffic controller while trying to take your morning pee, either.  Hey mosquitoes, what don’t you get?  Pee is gross, back off for a minute.  By the time everyone loaded up their canoes again, we were all ready to have a magic current take us to the finish line.

That magic current never came, though, so we were forced to paddle much further than any of us anticipated.  Whoever said “we just have to get to the second bridge” can rot in hell.  Seriously, I don’t remember who that person was, but if you’re reading this, you better pray I don’t run into you in a dark alley.  We passed like a hundred bridges and  I don’t know if the magic current was actually working against us, but it did feel like you had to have the strength of Dwayne The Rock Johnson to get your canoe moving.  Did it help that The VP wasn’t helping at all because she felt “nauseous or something”?  No, that did not help.  At this point, I didn’t give a fuck about ever being labeled a H.O.G.  In fact, I began to think that H.O.G.s are really just tired, sweaty, miserable guys who are able to trick us by smiling for the one picture they put up on Instagram.  I looked around at the group on the water that morning, and there were no smiles.  ZERO. SMILES.  There were grimaces and bug bites and The VP with her head between her knees saying “I am not okay.”  THE OUTDOORS!

Now, because I really am a super nice and super strong guy, I didn’t make The VP feel bad about not paddling much on the way back.  But now that we’re alone here guys, holy shit was that hard.  Like, “am I going to have a heart attack and die in a canoe on the Wisconsin River?”-hard.  Every day since, I’ve checked out my arms and shoulders in the mirror expecting them to look more chiseled than your neighborhood bodybuilder’s.  Spoiler alert: they don’t look chiseled, and it’s fucking bullshit.  After, no joke, like 3 hours of paddling, we finally got back to where I had parked my car.  The VP scurried up to my Chevy’s air conditioning, while I dragged back every damp, smelly belonging we had.  Remember those times when you would be moving into a new apartment and you just started dragging stuff because you were tired and didn’t give a fuck anymore?  That was me here.  If some strong man would have offered to carry me back to my car, I would have divorced The VP on the spot and married my new burly hero.  I may have even tried looking helpless for a little while hoping that some strongman stranger was waiting to play hero.  Hey, can someone play a sad song while I have my “please help me” face on?  There was no strongman stranger, just a sandy hill and a wife bolted to the inside of my car.  I loaded all our shit in the trunk, didn’t say goodbye to anyone in the group and said “holy shit” 14 times before I pulled out of our parking space.

I’m never going to be hot outdoorsy guy.  I’m a chair man, through and through.

THAT WAS A LOT OF WORDS AND NOW I’M DONE.

K bye.

 

 

When Do We Get To Stop Lying? (7/11/18)

MY WORLD:

Last night The VP and I didn’t know what to do for dinner so we walked around the corner to some Mexican joint we’ve walked pass no less than ten hundred trillion times.  It’s on a busy, shitty street and neither of us had ever heard of anyone who had tried it before so it had been easy to overlook.  But whatever, we couldn’t make a decision so we chose the path of least resistance, figuring, how bad could it be?

And then we ate there and it was bad (what a story, Jimmy!!!  Keep up this writing thing! Riveting stuff!)  The server was not good at her job; giving The VP an “I don’t know” when asked whether the enchiladas were spicy.  As a former server myself, I’m allowed to pick on them now, and this lady was awful.  If you went to a doctor and asked what your treatment would entail, and she responded “I don’t know,” you’d find another doctor.  So, off the bat, I was pissed that this woman couldn’t even fake pretending to be competent at her job.  Then the food came.

It wasn’t the kind of bad where you can’t touch it, but more the type where you’re really hungry so you keep eating and saying “it’s fine,” to each other.  If you ever want to feel like a dog willing to eat whatever is put in your bowl, try going to a mediocre Mexican restaurant where the only dinner conversation that’s allowed are the words “it’s fine.”  (Does Belle say “it’s fine” every morning while eating that stale kibble from the giant plastic bag?  Well, that’s because she can’t talk because she is a dog.)  

When we finished, I went up to pay and our server asked how everything was.  And this is what sparked what I wanted to write about this morning (finally!  You sure you don’t want to blather on for another 3 paragraphs?!?!) I told the server that “it was good!”  I even put an emphasis on the word “good” where I made myself sound excited when I said it.  She smiled and I tipped her over 20% because of 33 year-old guilt complexes ONLY.  But it made me feel like a dirty fucking liar.  Why did I owe it to this stranger who couldn’t have been trying less at her job to make her feel like she and her place of employment earned my money?  It’s like letting your dog up on the bed when she whines, or giving a kid a cookie when he starts to cry; simply reinforcing bad behavior.

I think there are a lot of sanctimonious people who love telling anyone with ears that they “never lie.”  Well, I’d like to call that bluff.  If these people “never lie,” then are they telling their 16 year-old waiter at the local Italian restaurant that their meatballs sucked ass?  Because if you tell him they were good, you’re a liar.  I don’t support conflating “being nice” with lying; these are mutually exclusive terms.  The manner in which your honesty reveals itself, is when we can determine whether you’re nice or not.  If I would’ve said “the food sucked. I hated the way you performed your job, and your hair is dumb” it would’ve been honest, but not nice.  However, who is arguing that I’m a dick if I would’ve said “the enchiladas were cold, and the service could’ve been more helpful”?  (Uh, I’m arguing that.)  Isn’t that constructive criticism that could, ultimately, help this restaurant?    (Please support Dickhead Jimmy’s crusade to save the shitty restaurants of the world!!!)

As we walked home, The VP could probably feel me stewing (were you grinding?  Well then how could she feel you?) I definitely said “you know what? That was not good” a few times, as if to atone for my recent LIE.  The VP, sensing that I was on the verge of some rant that she didn’t feel like placating, simply agreed and changed the subject quickly (which explains why you’re dumping it on the readers today.  Thanks Jimmy!)  But, I’m tired of the white lies.  I’M SICK OF EM!  Am I also sick of my cowardice taking over too many times in order to avoid a somewhat awkward, albeit honest, interaction with a stranger? Yeah, that too.  Here are some other “white lie” situations that leave me feeling like a dirty fucking liar afterwards:

Whenever I thank and tip an Uber driver whose car smells like a lumberjack’s armpit and drives like he’s auditioning to be “Car Crash Victim #7” in the next “Mission Impossible” movie.

Is there a worse feeling in the entire universe than getting into an Uber, closing the door and then having your nostrils flare as you realize “oh no, I’m in a smelly car”?  (There are worse feelings, but g’head make your point!)  If your car is your livelihood and you work in a tip-based industry, wouldn’t you want to make sure that your car doesn’t make your customers want to vomit?  I used to chalk it up to a “who gives a fuck?”-attitude on the part of the driver, but now I’m convinced that they just don’t know that their car smells like ass because NOBODY has the stones to tell them.  The driver has simply become immune to the chronic B.O. smell of their car and is none the wiser thanks to cowardly passengers such as myself.

Then there are the drivers who dart in and out of lanes while mixing in the occasional seatbelt check of a slam on the brakes.  Here’s a deal: if I have bruises across my chest from the hard stops of an Uber driver, the ride is free.  Do drivers like this end up saving any meaningful amount of time?  I’m convinced that they simply raise the blood pressure of every driver around them while saving POSSIBLY 9 seconds on total drive time.  Traffic is death: there’s no escaping it. (Wow, deep.)  

Whenever I’m in either of these types of Ubers-or both at the same time!-I end up just grumbling to myself or The VP the entire ride, only to thank the driver on my way out of the car and give him/her the standard “I’m not looking at my phone” Uber tip.  This is why these drivers drive like this, guys!  THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING!  If I would take the time to tell the Uber driver that the smell of his car reminded me of a high-school mathematician convention (Nerd B.O. is the most pungent), he/she may think “oh, maybe I should get my car cleaned or, at least, make sure I drive with the windows open.”  Even if I left a bad review under the “stanky car, cranky driver” reason, that would surely help.  If we all band together we can put an end to this epidemic!  FOLLOW ME! FOLLOW ME TO FREEDOM!

Whenever I talk about how my life is going to my grandfather.

I’m sure Grandpa Irv doesn’t want to hear about my struggles with staying away from sugar and drinking too much, but telling him everything is “really good” is depriving him the chance to impart some wisdom of his.  (Is that sarcastic?) No, that’s not sarcasm.  I’ve been thinking about how every time I’m around my grandpa, I answer every question he asks about my life by starting with “it’s really good, actually.”  Uh, that’s a lie.  Everything isn’t bad, but isn’t everyone creeped out with the person in their life who ALWAYS says that EVERYTHING is going GREAT?  Does that mean my grandpa is secretly creeped out by me? (Yes!) I’m imagining him going home with his girlfriend-yeah, he has a girlfriend-and being like “isn’t it creepy how Jimmy says that everything in his life is ‘really good’?  He must be doing drugs or just plain stupid.”  I bet his girlfriend nods along in agreement and they go to sleep thinking I’m some sort of simpleton.  THIS IS AN UNMITIGATED DISASTER!

If I were my grandpa, I’d go into these grandkid hang sessions somewhat excited about getting to share some of the knowledge I’d gained from being around for so long.  The way I can try to steer my younger brothers from mistakes I made, he could steer me away from potential adulthood missteps that he took.  But you can’t give advice to someone who only insists that everything is “really good, actually.”  He could press me on it, but what a waste of energy that is.  He’s probably like, “fine, you don’t want my advice, I don’t need to give it.  Have fun in that one bedroom apartment on the west side!”  Maybe if I was honest and told him that I’m worried about providing for a family while trying to pay off some preposterous student loans, he’d enlighten me with some comforting words.  Maybe he was in his 30s when he founded his carpet business that ended up paving the way for the comfortable life he has been able to lead?  Maybe he could light the spark for me to take some risks that I’m too afraid to take now?  But no, I’m content with little white lies about my life so as not to burden him with problems that aren’t his own.

That being said, there is the off-chance that I’m totally honest with him the next time we’re together and it causes him to back away from the table making “yuck” sounds before saying “good luck with all of that!”  It’s a risk I am simply too insecure to take.  But like, hey Grandpa, if you’re reading this and want to send me an inspirational e-mail, that’d be VV chill of you.

Whenever I talk to or about little babies…to anyone. 

I’m just lying the entire time I’m talking about little babies.  I’m talking like when they’re real new babies, I don’t know how to talk about them.  They all look basically the same, aside from some have hair and some don’t, and all they do is cry and poop and move some of their fingers sometimes.  Which parent does he/she look like?  I never have any idea and yet, usually, just lie and make some lame joke about he looks like the local mailman.  (Those jokes are never not funny FYI.)  I’ll “talk” to the baby in a higher pitched voice and talk about how cute it is, but like, can we be real?  They can’t understand me and I don’t know if it’s cute.  It looks like every other baby I’ve ever seen.  I’m sure some parents are reading this and labeling me a dick, but why am I supposed to be excited to interact with a thing that has no discernible look or personality?  It’s like getting mad at someone for not being excited to meet and speak with a new floor.  “Oh wow!  It’s wood and kinda smooth!”

This doesn’t mean that I’m not proud of friends of mine who have had little babies.  (Oh, is this the part where you protect yourself?) When I’m around friends of mine or The VPs who have had kids, I am instantly impressed that they have the maturity and stability to ensure the survival of a helpless creature.  These parent-friends of mine LITERALLY have to save their babies’ lives multiple times a day, and I’m writing a blogpost complaining about mediocre enchiladas.  Yeah, you’re more advanced than me!

However, when these life-saving heroes ask me about their 3 week-old’s personality, I wanna be like “uh, to be honest, your baby reminds me of my fingernail.  Like, I know it’s a living thing, but I’m not getting much in the way of a relationship.  I hope I don’t break it.”  While that may be an instance of being honest without being nice, this is really a no-win situation.  If I were to say “it has no discernible personality and looks like every baby I’ve ever seen,” the parents aren’t going to regale me with praise for my honesty.  So I’m forced to lie and walk away feeling like complicit in society’s rouse to make every kid feel more special than they really are.  (That got dark and kinda’ heavy there, bud.  Maybe tone it down a notch next time?)

OUR WORLD:

It’s Wednesday and today’s “My World” section ran long.  See ya’ out there.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

If you know me well, you know that I can’t handle scary movies because I’m a baby and they give me nightmares and I don’t like being scared.  BUT!  Every once in a blue moon, I kinda’ want to see one.  The trailer for the newest Halloween movie looks prettttayyyyy pretttttayyyyy sweet.  May have to man up and check this out.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The Little League World Series is starting soon and that means that I won’t want to watch ESPN for like 3 weeks.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Cool, guys.  I let you know who I was betting on yesterday for the first time in weeks and you all jinx me.  As if I need another reason to hate France, now they’ve actually taken money out of my pocket by beating Belgium yesterday.  I guess I’m going to bet on England today because…I don’t know where Croatia actually is.  That seems like sound reasoning.  WHAT COULD GO WRONG?!?!

(My account is currently at $31.44)

K bye.

 

The VP and I Are Going Abroad! (5/8/18)

MY WORLD:

Yeah, I took a few days off.  The VP of Ops and I celebrated our 1 year anniversary in the greatest and laziest of ways.  I’m talking dog walks and outdoor margaritas (although The VP got a Michelada for some reason and pretended not to hate it the entire time…she’s bad at pretending not to hate things), but mostly, I’m talking SWEATPANTS! COUCH! DELIVERY! NETFLIX!  And we finally pulled the trigger on buying tickets for our belated honeymoon; so the VP and I will be going to Ireland in early September.  (Braggy Jimmy STINKS!  THIS BLOG HAS CHANGED!)

Yeah, it is a slight brag, BUT we have had to answer the “where did you go on your honeymoon?” question for the past year with shrugged shoulders and stories about how “we’re saving up!”  I always felt like when that question came up, things would get real awkward and the people asking us would feel bad for us and walk away like “aww, they’re sad.”  I know that didn’t ACTUALLY happen, but it did kinda feel like it did.  So now, we get to play the nonchalant “oh, we’re going to Europe”-people for the next couple months.  (Going to Europe sounds cooler than just saying “Ireland” I think because that’s what my brain is telling me and I don’t have a rational way to describe why I feel like that.  IS THAT OKAY?!?!)  

Aside from bragging a lil bit (it is MY blog…I’m allowed to do that every now and then) this is more of a plea for help because I have no idea what to do on a vacation.  I’ve never been out of the country (or have I? And if so, why am I hiding it? Is Jimmy a sp– IS THE GOVERNMENT READING THIS?!?!) and The VP and I have never been on a vacation together.  Yeah, real talk.  The only times The VP and I have been out of town are to visit her fam in Mississippi or to go to a wedding (where I would normally get too intoxicated and come VERY close to embarrassing The VP in front of all her friends that were skeptical of her being with a Yankee in the first place.  I’m a master of first impressions, guys.)  The last time I was on a legit vacation was in High School I think, so we’re going to need some suggestions on where to go and what to do because here is what I think a vacation consists of (according to teen/pre-teen Jimmy):

Hours in the hotel pool:  Wait, so my Dad isn’t coming to Ireland with us to throw me around in the hotel pool?  WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT IS THIS?!?! I swear to god, if The VP doesn’t want to play catch with a mini-nerf football in the pool, I’m gonna LOSE IT!  Here’s what should happen; my Dad shows up to throw me around in the pool and then Erin and I play catch with the mini-football where I’ll mostly stand on the ledge of the pool and have her throw it so I can make a V cool looking diving catch.  Instagram finna’ be LIT UP with my diving catch boomerangs!

Hotel freeze tag:  Little does The VP know that she lucked out and married the undisputed King of Pomerantz Hotel Freeze Tag.  “But Jimmy, you were the oldest of 4 siblings, so weren’t you always at a physical AND mental advantage?”  <<<Who in the fuck is asking me questions like that?  PASS!  Listen, barefoot freeze tag through hotel halls with your siblings (and now wife…don’t worry VP, we’ll let you play now!) is the 5th major sport in America.  The Sportscenter Top 10 was made for moments like when the oldest of 4 taunts the youngest for being too slow to win freeze tag and too immature to handle ALWAYS losing freeze tag.

Eating dinner at that place with peanut shells on the ground and a free popcorn machine:  If all-you-can-eat popcorn and getting to toss peanut shells on the floor doesn’t say vacation, I don’t know what does.  Were my parents simply masters of manipulation in framing dive bars as the epitome of relaxation for kids?  Possibly, but goddamnit do I respect that move.  Nothing was more exciting for 11 year-old Jimmy than pulling up to “The Satisfied Frog” in Cave Creek, Arizona and being reminded that it was the “peanut shell and popcorn place!”  AWWWWWW HELL YEAH!

Those activities sound doable for a couple of 32 year olds in Ireland, right?  (He’s joking, right? I can’t tell…I REALLY CAN’T TELL!)  I am kidding…sorta.  Please take this as an invitation to tell us what to do if you’ve been there.  Even if you haven’t been there and saw something in a movie that looked cool, we’re open!  We watched an Anthony Bourdain show on Ireland yesterday and it seems that Guinness and dive bars are a good place to start (maybe I’ll just bring my own bag of peanuts and pray they don’t get mad at me for tossing the shells on the ground?)

OUR WORLD:

I haven’t been living in “our world” lately, so gonna need to sit this one out today.  Takes a day or two for me to get my sea legs back.  Kinda like when you get back into the gym after a long layoff and your body doesn’t work anymore; that’s me and my writing fingers right now.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I plan on this being me every morning in Ireland…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Lisa Vanderpump was kind of a MAJOR B to the 2 Tom’s on last night’s Vanderpump reunion show, right?  So….my point about her being a pompous jerk was proven.

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE:

Won with the Cavs last night which is never that enjoyable because I can’t stand Lebron.  We did lose with the Celts though and the parlay so….BASICALLY EVEN!  Tonight’s games have BIG lines which are scary, but the Rockets and Warriors seem destined to stomp out these series.  LETS BANG THOSE FAVES!

(My account currently at $153.68)

K bye.

Time Out! (5/4/2018)

*Quick note from the Chairman of Jimmyschair…uh….Jimmy (aka, me):  Not that anyone cares that much (have to say that so I don’t feel too silly) BUT! I do want to say that I try SUPES hard to write as much as I can.  While I aim to post every day, sometimes I JUST FRIGGIN’ CAN’T OKAY?!?! IS THAT A CRIME?!?!  Honestly, I feel bad when I don’t post.  Going forward, let’s say there will be between 3-5 posts per week.  I need a little leeway for weeks like this when dumb life stuff gets in the way of MY BLOG!  I’ll be back with a vengeance next week (or maybe even sneak one in for some weekend reading…)  Thanks for reading; it’s the coolest thing ever when I hear about someone reading this dumb stuff.

Here’s one of my fave movie clips.  At around the 1:03 mark, Philip Seymour Hoffman calls for “time out”.  That’s basically how I feel right now…

THANKS GUYS! LYSM! TELL YOUR FRIENDS WHO HAVE GOOD SENSES OF HUMOR AND APPRECIATE THE WRITTEN WORD TO READ THIS!  TALK SOON!

Here’s a fun Halloween pic of The VP and I to set your weekend off right:

halloween

K byeeeeeeeeeeee.

 

 

 

 

Bar Rescue and My Warning (4/4/2018)

OUR WORLD:

Yesterday, I bestowed a very prestigious honor upon three reality television shows when I inducted “Vanderpump Rules”, “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives” and “Bar Rescue” into the jimmyschair reality tv show Hall of Fame.  With controversy over the initial selections SWIRLING, I would like to explain why I am right and you are wrong and I am the best and you are the worst.  Jk lol guys! It’s called a joke, ever heard of it?!?! Gah!

I would, however, like to give Hall of Fame intros for each of these wonderful shows.  Why? Because they deserve it.  First up, “Bar Rescue”:

Do you remember where you were the first time you saw Taffer swagger his ass into a dirty bar on his way to save his reconnaissance team from eating undercooked chicken?!  It was probably on your couch, on a Sunday morning, wasn’t it?  You were hungover, weren’t you?  You were probably a real grimy piece of shit that morning, weren’t you?  Yeah, you were.  I was.  We all were.  Little did we know that all we needed was a few hours of Taffer berating stupid bar owners.  Running a bar isn’t just a business, it’s a science.  Put down the advil, “Bar Rescue” was on.

A lot of people often ask how this somewhat out-of-shape, uggo faced nobody with thinning hair slicked back like an 80s movie villain was able to resonate with audiences the way he has.  So many people have asked me this, guys.  Like, in my head while I’m writing this, so many people..  I believe it’s because he’s EXACTLY the kind of guy that you think a bar owner would look like.  When you think “owner of a bar in town that’s kinda’ dirty,” you see Jon Taffer’s face.  Boom, authenticity right off the bat but, uh oh!  Then Taffer dribbles behind his back and you’re let in on the FACT that he has transformed HUNDREDS of bars WORLDWIDE!  That’s right, you judged this book by it’s cover, and you were DEAD wrong.  Taffer doesn’t own that “bar in town that’s kinda’ dirty”; he turns money pits into money makers.

Your hangover headache begins to subside because your brain is faced with being wrong about your initial Taffer impressions.  Then, as the show kicks in, you see how much he cares for people…people like you.  Bet you wish that some hardo with bad hair would’ve yelled at the bar owner who over served you last night.  Taffer would have!  Your stomach feeling weird from those nachos you had the night before?  The Taff-man would’ve spotted that!  (Hidden cameras?!?!) YEAH, HE HAS HIDDEN CAMERAS GUYS!  Taff-A-Rama would’ve seen that Chef Boyar-poophands didn’t properly sanitize the serving laddle before scooping that nacho cheese onto the tortilla chips.  How hard is it to wash a laddle!?!?!  But Taffer wouldn’t have just watched this happen to you.  No.  He would’ve stormed out of his 2007 Chevrolet Tahoe XL, parked inconspicuously across the street so as not to garner any unwanted attention, and gotten to those nasty ‘chos before you turned your hand into a mouth shovel.  Taffer is the hero we deserve.

Then, as we descend into the depths of hangover depression alongside the Dorito crumbs that have piled up on our dirty t-shirts, Taffer introduces us to someone who makes WORSE decisions than you: the bar owner.  Normally, they’ll be taking shots with customers, or yelling at employees, or throwing loose papers on their desk.  Jon walks in and immediately fingers them as “the bad guy”.  What does that mean? That means YOU are not the bad guy any longer, you were simply the victim of a poorly run bar.  HE is the bad guy.

They’ll normally be real defensive and shitty when Taffer calmly and politely, but also sternly, introduces himself.  A “whatever”-eye-roll is a go-to move for the shitty bar owners here.  Or, the incredulous “what?!” when Taffer asks WHY THEY HAVE BEEN SERVING ‘CHOS USING A DIRTY FUCKING LADDLE?!?!?! WHY?!  (Let’s call this shitty owner, Vic.  That’s a shitty owner name.)  WHY ARE YOU SERVING NACHO CHEESE USING A RAT-SHIT INFESTED LADDLE, VIC?  Vic will probably shake his head, or give Taffer the “pshh” hand gesture.  Meanwhile, you’re beginning to realize that it was fucking Vic’s fault as to why your stomach is so messed up.  GET HIM JOHN!

Vic will try to walk away because he has a short temper and doesn’t want to be set off, but guess what? Taffer ain’t scared of you, Vic.  Taffer’s a tall man who has big huge muscles underneath that layer of authentic chub (non-trainers that have 6-pack abs simply do not work hard at their jobs.  Fact.)  The Taff-man will continue to search for an answer re:dirty laddle because he is here to root out the problem.  Vic will continue to walk away until…”I don’t know, Jon!”  But, Jon DOES know.  BECAUSE YOU’RE LAZY, VIC!

Are you lazy? Possibly.  As lazy as Vic, though? No way.  Phew, you’re in the clear.  So not only is Taffer a bar scientist, but he has also been trained in the art of cutting-to-the-core-issue.  Vic is lazy, and until Vic comes to terms with that, his bar will FAIL.  Doctors have to run expensive tests before reaching a diagnosis.  Taffer’s test is free, and it’s called “the eye test”.  “I knew, once Vic turned around and looked me in the eye, that the reason the paddle wasn’t clean is because he is a lazy human being”-Taffer.

As enthralling as the initial confrontation and IMMEDIATE diagnosis was, that’s just the beginning.  Now that you’re beginning to come out of your hangover hell (it wasn’t your fault!) you are treated to a behind-the-scenes look at what it takes to run an effective bar.  Taffer, knowing that he isn’t an expert in EVERYTHING (humility), has enlisted the help of his friends; and he’s only friends with people who are experts in their fields.  There’s gonna be the fat chef wearing the newsboy cap and thumb rings.  You like sliders? Well Chef Thumbrings has cooked sliders at hotels in a little town called LAS VEGAS, NEVADA!  And those sliders are….uh…well, judging by the fact that he has a chef’s shirt with his name on it, they must be pretty fuggin’ perfect.  That’s not the only one Taffer brought, though.  You remember that bartender with the menacing smile who shook two metal shakers at the same time?  Yep, she’s here too, and guess what? She’s wearing a vest.  FYI: Only bartenders that have won Bartending awards you didn’t know existed, can wear vests (surprised you didn’t know that).

As Chef Thumbrings and Bartender Vest whip Vic’s secretly-wanting-to-do-good staff into shape, Jon has bigger fish to fry.  Not only is he explaining the science behind the necessary remodeling, but he needs to get to the real issue: Vic’s unwillingness to change his lazy ways.  These scenes are gonna be tough, and there will be yelling.  Will Vic walk out the backdoor at one point and threaten to just shut the bar down? Of course he will because that’s what weak men do.  But Taffer won’t let him quit.  Taffer isn’t there to make Vic feel bad about himself.  Taffer is there because Vic needs to accept responsibility before he is able to truly change…and change is hard, guys.

Vic will come back the day after threatening to shut the bar down, and Taffer will make a joke.  It won’t be that funny, but that’s not the point.  It’ll be kinda’ sweet and Vic, for the first time in his entire life, will crack a smile.  The walls Vic has spent decades building up are beginning to crumble just in time for Vic’s chef to deliver him some delicious, LAS VEGAS, NEVADA-STYLE sliders.

At this point, you’re getting hungry on your couch because those sliders look so elfin’ good and, you’re all like, “Babe, is there a delivery slider place? No? There should be.  Are you sure there’s not?  I know I can look it up on GrubHub, but-”  BUT, you’re so excited for the final remodel reveal, and grand re-opening that you don’t have time for “Slider Delivery Near Me” internet searches.  (DUH!)  

When we come back from the final commercial break, and we see Vic’s face light up at the marquee outside his bar, Taffer has done his job.  He’ll walk Vic and his staff through the outrageous upgrades littered throughout this once-upon-a-time dump of a bar.  New barstools? Check.  New background bar lighting? Check. Clean grill hood? Check.  And, the kicker? Taffer bought Vic a brand new, state of the art, nacho-cheese-laddle-washer.  Taffer will throw his arm around Vic, and Vic will laugh at how stupid he USED to be re:dirty laddles.  If your hangover isn’t eviscerated by this act of self-deprecating laddle humor, then just jump out that window cuz it don’t get no betta’ than this.

Ladies and Gentlemen, without further ado, I would like to formally induct “Bar Rescue” into the Jimmyschair Reality TV Show Hall of Fame.  (Get up and clap, assholes.)

MY WORLD:

It snowed last night and if you’re not in a bad mood today because of that, I don’t know what kind of human being you are.  I would simply like to use today’s “My World” section as a warning of sorts.  I will not be my best self today.  Wind + cold + snow in FUGGIN APRIL! = surly Jimmy.  With that in mind, if you find yourself in the unfortunate position of being in my vicinity today, please refrain from the following:

1)  Joking about Chicago’s weather.  It is simply not a laughing matter.

2)  Touching me.  Sometimes, I enjoy a gentle back pat, or shoulder graze, but I’m putting myself in a touch-free-zone today.  This includes handshakes.  I get it, we met; no need to touch palms to signify that.

3)  Asking me if I’m going on vacation anytime soon.  I’m not and that’s really none of your business anyway.

4)  Smiling.  Today is about pursed lips and incredulous shaking of heads.  Feel free to hit me with a sarcastic smile, but I swear to God, if you punch me with a tooth-party, genuinely happy smile, we’re done.  Finished forever.  Capish?

5)  Looking at me…

Okay, this is getting out of hand.  Whenever I fully engage in Surly Jimmy mood, a snowballing situation occurs.  Let’s just keep our distance…mmkay?!?!  I SAID BACK UP!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Cold.

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE:

Today is the last day I can build up my balance a lil bit more before The Masters, so you best believe I’m finding some action.  Also! The VP of Ops has a girls trivia night or some shit, so I can actually watch sports at home without feeling guilty!  Oooooo doggy!  Celtics are getting 7.5 points on the road in Toronto.  Both teams coming off road losses last night…so they’re both gonna be mad…that’s a lot of points.  I’m expecting a close game.  Gimme them Boston Bad Boys!  TAKE CELTICS (+7.5) STRAIGHT TO DA BANK!

(My account currently at $21.09)

K bye.