I Live Above A Drug Dealer (6-19-18)

MY WORLD:

I think I live above a drug dealer. In fact, it’s a couple, so I could very well be living above TWO drug dealers who are working in concert to avoid detection while maximizing ILLEGAL PROFITS!!! If you can’t tell yet, this goes deep. While I’m sure many of you are saying to yourselves “Jimmy, just because a guy has neck tattoos, off-putting facial hair and a pit bull, it doesn’t mean he’s a drug dealer.” (Time to dig my heels in and go into full-on Jimmy Law Mode…) WELL, THAT DOESN’T MEAN HE’S NOT A DRUG DEALER! (Nailed it.)

A couple weeks back (months? years? EVERYTHING IS BLURRING TOGETHER IN THIS FRANTIC WHIRLWIND WE CALL LIFE!!!) ANYWAY! A time ago, I was coming home late from work, for I am a “man of the night.” When I parked my car on the street, I noticed the old, white Chevy Impala that is ALWAYS parked in the exact same spot. I’m convinced this car was built on this corner and has never actually been driven and the fact that it takes up the best parking spot near my building DRIVES ME BONKERS. So I’m passing the car I hate the most on this fateful night when I notice a character in another raggedy car idling next to the Impala. The senses honed while a Boy Scout for the 5 months before I told my Dad that I hated camping and being outdoors kicked in…SOMETHING WAS UP!

So I hurried up inside my building. We live on the third floor of a six-unit building; two units per floor. (Six flat? Three flat? IT’S NOT EVEN FLAT THOUGH SO WHAT THE FUCK?!?) Once inside, I gave The VP of Ops that sweet baby smooch she’d, no doubt, been DAYDREAMING about all day and got my guard dog, Belly Psychopants, to head back outside for her nighttime dumperoo. Little did Belle know that maintaining her digestive system wasn’t my main purpose for going outside; Detective Jimmy was ’bout to scope out this Impala situation.

Of course, we scurried across the street once outside. The idling car was still idling right next to that fuggin’ Impala and this was purely a stake-out situation for me. Time to hide on the side of the street without any lights! (You think darkness is your ally? I WAS BORN IN THE DARK!!!) Shielded by the night sky, Belly Psychopants sniffed every single blade of grass while I squinted at the wasteful driver (idling in your car is no bueno for your engine FYI. Read that on a little website called Google. EVER HEARD OF IT?!?!) After about 4 minutes of Belle’s grass sniffing and my sleuthing, someone got out of the idling car. He wasn’t a small man, but he wasn’t a big man…HE WAS A NORMAL-SIZED MAN! (So, not really distinguishable from across the street at night.)

Once outside the car, I noticed something VERY suspicious: he was on his phone. Yeah! Yeah! AND! He left his car running with the door open. I almost alerted him that this area is known for carjackings but his aura screamed “I DON’T GIVE A CARE!” (You felt his aura? Or were you just scared? Answer the question, Jimmy. We’ll wait…) Belle tugged on her leash either because she had to make a doody or because she was a frightened ‘lil beeyotch. Unfortunately for Belle, Pomerantz’s never succumb to fear (dubious, at best). While on the phone, NSM (normal-sized man), went up to the white impala’s gas tank. He popped open the…uh….latch? You know, the little door-thing you open when putting gas in your car? (Car guy alert!) NSM opened the tiny gas-door thingy, looked like he took something out of there, then got back in his car and took off.

When he got back in his car, it’s not like he peeled off, but, in a way, isn’t that MORE suspicious? He was probably like “just in case there’s a definitely-not-scared 32 year-old man with his labradoodle watching me from behind a tree across the street, I better not peel off and draw MORE attention to myself.” I SEE THROUGH YOUR GAMES, PAL!!! I looked down at Belle to mutter “that was something” but she didn’t even care. How interesting can the smells of grass really be? Seriously?!?! We weren’t done snooping yet, though. For, right as we were about to go about our dumpin’ ways, I heard the main door to MY apartment building open. It’s a loud door because our landlord has never heard of WD-40, BUT THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT. I heard our door, and went back into squint-mode. Belle went back to sniffing and, like, totally not helping our cause.

Our well-lit entrance revealed a pale man with dark tattoos slither out the front door, down the steps, and over to…that goddamn Impala. This guy owns the Impala! While resisting my overwhelming urge to yell “WHY HAVE A CAR IF YOU’RE NEVER GONNA DRIVE IT?!?!” I noticed that slither-man was ALSO interested in the tiny gas-door thingy (hold on, I’m gonna google this…some are calling it a “fuel door”) Slither-man opened the fuel door, grabbed something, and then went back to his slithering ways back inside our building. I watched the windows of our building from outside and noticed that a light came on, on the floor below The VP and I right around the same time he entered the building. What. Just. Happened.

I’ll tell ya’ what just happened! That fuel door (car guy!) is the secret exchange place for drugs and money. One guy drops drugs there, the other guy drops money in exchange for said drugs, then the first guy (drug guy!) gets the money. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a guilty verdict with A FRIGGIN’ BOW ON IT! I don’t need a silly hat and magnifying glass to solve the great crimes of the 21st Century. All I need is my fluffy dog and the COVER OF DARKNESS!

Now, if you’re thinking that I’ve rushed to judgement, don’t worry, I’ve put together more pieces to the puzzle since this dark, scary, yet illuminating night. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I present to you, my findings:

-The outside of slither-man’s apartment door, the one facing to the hall, has a black feather wreath hanging on it. I plan to call on a nationally renowned wreath-expert who will reveal that black feather wreaths signify one thing, and one thing only: drugs.

-Slither-man and his female companion have NEVER been seen during daylight. While the VP and I have seen all of the other tenants of the building soaking up Vitamin D, we have yet to see Slither-man and Jane Doe bag ANY rays. I know what you’re thinking: “But Jimmy, a lot of people work at night and sleep during the day! Maybe they’re just bartenders or factory workers.” That brings me to my next finding…

-Every single night when I take Belly Psychopants outside, there is a cloud of weed smoke billowing out from under Slither-man’s door and into the hallway. Last I checked, it’s pretty tough to be at a factory and smoking weed inside your apartment AT THE SAME TIME! (This is the part where I shrug my shoulders and say something like “Not that I’m against weed or nuffin'” to get the jury on my side. Lemme tellya’ though, as a certified weed-fearing person, walking through clouds of pot smoke, terrified of catching a contact-high and, subsequently, having a paranoia panic attack is NOT an enjoyable experience every time you have to take your dog out. I feel like a scuba diver without an oxygen tank whenever I pass this apartment while it’s dark outside.)

-Slither-man and Jane Doe have a big, scary looking dog that is very calm. Must be stoned. No other possible explanation for it. (Maybe they just paid attention to training it from a young age, unlike some people…) NOPE!

-And, just in case you weren’t paying attention during my opening argument, Slither-man’s white, Chevy Impala has not moved for a MINIMUM of 15 years. MINIMUM!

For all you mathematicians out there, here’s the arithmetic:

Fuel door shenanigans + White Impala that has never moved + Black feather wreath + Clouds of pot smoke outside their door + Big, scary stoned dog + Night time sightings ONLY

EQUALS

Drug Dealers

I rest my case.

Going forward, I may touch on potential best and worst-case scenarios involving The VP and I living about these drug kingpins. For now, Belle and I will continue to sniff out grass smells of all kinds (see what I did there? GOD, I’M GOOD!)

OUR WORLD:

There is no formal review of this week’s “The Bachelorette” because I got home late last night and was so frustrated with everything surrounding my day that I just had to be alone to cook in the kitchen while the show aired (there may also have been a mondo Martini involved here). Here is what I gathered from The VP yelling to me from the living room and getting to catch the last 11 minutes-ish of the show:

-Jordan did something: I don’t really know what. The VP yelled some muffled thing about Jordan maybe winning something or doing something or…Look, this guy is the only thing keeping this season afloat. Although, I’m starting to think he’s just too obvious of a producer-plant. Like, is really dumb enough to say the things he’s saying? The whole “my face is my professionality” thing, etc. He’s like an evil-Michael Scott who…may be in on the joke? Is he?

-Cologne-guy got booted: Uhhhhhhh, called it. Dudes who are into cologne and “accoutrements” are BOZOS of the highest degree. I feel ridiculous even writing the word “accoutrements”. I can’t imagine bragging to a national television audience about how my self-worth is tied to the “accoutrements” and cologne I wear. YAMMA MOMMA!

-My fave, stunt-guy Leo, got a rose! This dude has no chance of winning, but I’m glad he’s still around. He’s legitimately funny and still has the potential to steal the show by performing a death-defying stunt. Whether it’s a car or building or…motorcycle? Leo needs to jump out of something right as it explodes. His awesome long hair will just miss the ball of flames behind him as he tucks into perfectly executed barrel roll. Then he should get up, spit out the shards of glass that landed in his mouth from said explosion, and grab Becca like he’s never going to let her go. If she still picks Garret or Colton after that, then she can go straight to hell.

-Weasel-face David has a bloody eye: That’s all. His eye looks gross and I still hate his weasel face. He def would’ve been kicked off if he hadn’t just fallen off his bunkbed. Bunkbed fall will buy him 1 more episode TOPS.

Those are my takeaways. I’ll do my best to not require alone-in-the-kitchen-with-a-huge-martini-time next Monday night.

I did watch “The Proposal” afterwards and, oh baby, that show is DELICIOUSLY TRASHY!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

There’s a new Death Cab for Cutie song! While not their best of all-time, it’s new and they’re my favorite band so…EVERYTHING THEY DO I LIKE! Also, VP dunked on the universe with her bday gift to me last week–tickets to these guys next time they’re in town. Boomshakalaka:

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

It’s exhausting getting worked up about ALL of these horrifying Trump administration performances, isn’t it? I legitimately think that the stress created by this ghoulish White House is having an impact on everyone’s mood. Am I the only one a little more on edge than I should be?

WHAT CUTE OR FUNNY THING DID MY DOG DO THAT YOU PROBABLY HAD TO BE THERE FOR, BUT COULD MAYBE PUT US ALL IN A BETTER MOOD?

She sneezed right in The VPs face last night. Legit drenched her. I was proud of Belle.

K bye.

Sleeping W/Out AC and Chicago Renters Pt. II (5/2/2018)

MY WORLD:

If you are looking for a way to guarantee waking up in an AWFUL mood, I would suggest breaking your air conditioning unit on the first hot day of the year and trying to sleep when it’s 80 degrees in your apartment. Thankfully, I, personally, don’t have to break my air conditioning unit because The VP and I are lucky enough to rent an apartment that SUPPLIES malfunctioning units without us even having to ask for it! It’s almost as if the landlord read our minds when we signed our lease “I bet these two LOVE when the AC doesn’t work and they get to break a sweat while lying in a bed…oh, have I got a surprise for them!” Well done on keeping that surprise a secret for 8 months!

Honestly, it’s hard to overcome a shitty night of tossing and turning in your own sweat. I got up at like 3AM just to stand in front of my open refrigerator. And you know what makes me feel even softer, is that it wasn’t THAT hot outside. Unfortunately, we cooked last night (resourceful adults, whatever) and used our oven. It was only after dinner when we realized that the AC wasn’t working. So we basically hotboxed ourselves/turned our apartment into a makeshift sauna (hotbox is a weed smoking term that I have never done but it sounds SCARY!) Let me be the first to warn you guys, cranking your oven up on a hot night and turning your 1 bedroom apartment into a homemade sauna is NOT going to relax your muscles.

Then, as if it wasn’t bad enough on us, our numba one pretty gurrrrllll was panting because she’s overdue for a summer cut because we’ve been lazy dog parents lately; so I felt hot AND guilty. If Belle could read this, I feel like she’d roll her eyes and say something along the lines of “YOU were hot? Try wearing a full-body fur suit and only getting to cool of with room temperature water in a dirty bowl. Pussy.” (She would be correct.) I will say that last night, I put some ice cubes in her water bowl and felt like the hero she deserved; she took sips and huffed out a very sarcastic sounding “woof.” So now my dog and I are in a fight.

Then comes the part where I let my building know (are you bored with this yet? Yeah? I don’t care, this is somewhat cathartic for me so just leave. You wanna leave?!?! WHO’S STOPPING YOU?!?!? GOD I’M IN A MOOD!) Where was I? (Thanks for interrupting!) Right, so then comes the part where I let my building know and I get to hear back from like 7 different guys who must ALL have degrees in “Trying To Hide The Fact That I Have No Idea When The HVAC Guy Is Coming.” Then. THEN! When they do actually get here, I have to lock Belle in our bedroom and convince the HVAC repair people that she’s not able to bulldoze through the door to maul them because she sounds like a PSYCHOKILLER LUNATIC! I’ll make some “doesn’t she sound sweet?” jokes, but they won’t really laugh because hearing what sounds like your maker on the other side of a thin bedroom door does not create a fun-loving atmosphere. And you know they’re not going to be able to fix it the first time they’re hear, so The VP and I are looking at 2 more nights MINIMUM of trying to sleep in our own sweat. Isn’t that just GREAT?!?!

Knowing me, I’m going to convince myself that this awful night sleep that I got is a valid excuse to eat something really shitty for lunch; an effort to make myself feel better in the short term. This will, undoubtedly, lead to me feeling extra tight in my new J.Crew jeans and hating myself for the rest of the afternoon. Optimism is at an all-time low in the Pomerantz household right now. (If you can’t tell, one of my strong suits is staying composed in adverse situations.)

OUR WORLD:

Today’s Part II of “The Life of a Chicago Renter” may have a slight edge to it based on my current mental state (re: My World). I just wanted to put that on the record because…nobody cares about the record and whenever anyone says that it’s basically an excuse to act however you want. Right? It’s the same as saying “That being said…” and along the same lines as “No offense, but…”

Wicker Park/Bucktown/Logan Square: (Age 28-32)

I like to refer to this as the “I’m not a hipster, but if I live near them I may get hit with some of their street-cred shrapnel”-phase. You start to become more interested in drinking things other than beer and vodka sodas, and you’re DONE living in places with window-units and no dishwasher. These west-side HOT SPOTS have exploded in popularity over the past decade, which means what? GRANITE COUNTERTOPS Y’ALL!!! And in-unit washer/dryers, dishwashers and fancy modern sinks. A big bowl sink feels like luxury when you’re used to decades worth of Heineken stains in your old-timey sink with the faucet that pops off.

There are more dog parks, so now is the PERFECT time to get a doogenstein and join the “I’m sorry, she was adopted”-crew. Side note: whether you actually adopted your dog or not, the perfect excuse for a poorly behaved dog is to drop a “yeah, she was adopted” in there. Immediately, you’re a selfless hero and your doogensteeglestein is a victim of a rough upbringing. Once in Wicker/Buck/Logan, you’re surrounded by young families, dogs and people that aren’t quite done partying, but do it in a way that it’s not SO obviously destructive. They’re professionals by this point, which is why brunch becomes SUCH deal. Nothing like hiding binge drinking with eggs and toast; it’s not destructive or a “problem” if it’s done in the light at a breakfast table. Remember that.

Then there’s the hipster versus bro civil war that has been simmering for the past 5 years as the bros have infiltrated hipster-land. What’ll probably happen with you, is what happened with me; you’ll claim allegiance to the bro side of the war when you’re around your bro-ier friends, and then you’ll claim allegiance to the hipster side of the war when you’re around your hipster-ier friends. No shame in playing both sides here because both sides kinda stink equally. It’s also fun to sit in restaurants and bars and see the two sides glaring at each other from across the bar. The hipsters say things like “wow, sweet khakis bro” and the bros say things like “wow, sweet fingerless gloves pal”. It’s a duel totally devoid of actual wit, that’s easy to identify and fun to watch.

Ukrainian Village/River West/West Town/West Loop: (Age 32-DEATH)

I’m 32 now and I live in Ukrainian Village. That’s really all the experience I have so…I assume I’ll just stay here till I die, right?

Good section, Jimmy!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I need some good-times music to help make me feel better about the whole AC sitch. SING TO ME STEVE!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Being in a bad mood for a reason so slight that anyone going through anything that’s ACTUALLY difficult would hate you.

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:

I talked my gambling crew out of taking the Pelicans last night because I was POSITIVE the Warriors would blow them out with Steph Curry returning. It seems, in the face of all the evidence I had, I have yet to crack the NBA code. Back to the drawing board, but I’m like that little kid in the deep end who’s about to panic that they’re drowning. Give me some fucking waterwings or something here! The Jazz are 11 point underdogs tonight and, they have more pride than that. Right? So much pride to take them on the moneyline? YUP!

(My account currently at $88.07)

K bye.

The Life of a Chicago Renter (5/1/2018)

OUR WORLD:

A lot of people are moving. Okay, end of blog! (Sorry, but someday I’m just going to write a one sentence blog and that sentence is going to be general and bland. I will do it for the sole purpose of making myself laugh. I look forward to that day.) But I am seeing a lot of people in my apartment building and on Facebook who are moving, and it got me to thinking that the life of a Northside Chicago renter, is somewhat universal. Obviously, these are gross generalizations, but there seems to be a neighborhood progression with age that most of my friends have gone through. The Life of a Northside Chicago Renter, goes like this:

Wrigleyville: (Age 22-24)

This is the “I’m out of college but not done acting like I’m still in college”-phase. Wrigleyville is a mess of old apartment buildings with window units and wooden floors that have been ravaged by years of inadvertent beer spills. When you’re in college, Wrigleyville is what you think of as “Chicago city living”, though. Do you remember watching Cubs games growing up and thinking about how jealous you were that people actually got to LIVE by that stadium?!?! You’re basically a Cubs player if you live there, is how young Chicagoans’ brains work.

Then you go to college, learn how to blackout on a regular basis and start telling people that you’re never going to change because you “like to have FUN!” So when you graduate, moving to Wrigleyville is the only place you can continue the random Tuesday night blackout in a crowded bar (if you try to do this in a River North bar, you will be the only one there and the bartender will, most likely, ask “are you sure you want another? It’s Tuesday.”) This coincides with prime serving and bartending ages and, as I can attest, restaurant worker “weekends” happen most every night.

Coming from dorm and college apartment life, these creaky Wrigleyville dungeons don’t seem half bad, and a lot of your friends are going to be close by so…again…you’re basically still in college. As you get into the end of year 1, though, you’ll start to realize that living in Wrigleyville kinda’ stinks. Parking is an ISSUE at all times. The restaurants are equipped to feed an entire drunk baseball stadium spilling into the streets, so quality isn’t their first priority. The heating units/radiators sound like they’re screaming in the winter (literally, imagine a high-pitched cat hiss) and it always gets WAY too hot, but it’s too cold to open a window so you’re just left in temperature no-mans land. Thankfully, you’re probably drunk, so passing out isn’t too big of a problem.

Lakeview: (Age 24-25)

As you start to get a little more established in your job, or actually get your first 9-5 job, there comes a time when you need to prove to your family that you have move past the Wrigleyville phase of your life. Honestly, it’s more symbolic than anything. You’re still going to show up hungover to most weekend family functions, but at least this time you can say something like “I moved to Lakeview because I just couldn’t take the Wrigleyville crush anymore.” What you don’t realize, though, is that your parents are WELL AWARE that Lakeview is basically one block south of Wrigleyville so….you’re basically still there.

The apartments are a hair cheaper and a very thin hair nicer (yeah, like the one’s on the crown of my head…that hurt my feelings). You’ve probably gone from living with 3 people, to living with 1 or 2 people and it’s no longer ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY to have a ping pong table room (don’t worry, you’ll still have a bunch of friends who feel differently). But you’ll start getting back into the gym and eating a little better during the week, and the weekday binge drinking will slow…a teeny tiny bit.

Then, near the end of your lease, you’ll leave a Mexican restaurant that just served you pre-packaged margs and lukewarm tacos and it’ll hit you: “Lakeview is purgatory!” It’s the waiting room with dull art on the walls between college life and adulthood. It’s removed from Wrigley so it’s not as fun as college, but it’s still riddled with dumpy apartment buildings and mediocre restaurants so it’s not a nice as real adulthood can be. (Caviar! Diamonds! Hair Product!) The older friends you have around the city NEVER come to Lakeview to meet up because “nah, just come here”, and your younger siblings think all the bars in Lakeview are bland…because they are.

Lincoln Park: (Age 25-27)

Lincoln Park is cool. There’s a zoo and a college and good restaurants and a park. For the first time since high school, you won’t be surrounded by dumpsters with window units. It’s a lovely mix of UBER ritzy buildings, decent apartments for young professionals and a few dumpster units for the DePaul students who are too cool to stay in the dorms. I think this is when most legitimate dating happens because there are actually decent restaurants in Lincoln Park too. Hard to call chicken fingers and 19 beers at Sluggers a great way to start a long-lasting, trustworthy relationship.

I will warn you, however, that the zoo is a big draw to Lincoln Park, but if you actually go there, be prepared to be depressed. Going to a zoo as an adult is one of the worst realizations of getting older. THEY’RE SO DEPRESSING! Who knew that standing with screaming toddlers and professional nose pickers while watching WILD ANIMALS pace a habitat smaller than your deck was going to make you sad?!?! SHOCKING! Also, somehow, the ice cream that you were thrilled to get as a kid at the zoo is now…like, warm. It’s still congealed, but when you bite into it, amazingly, it’s kinda warm. One of the most off-putting experiences is eating warm ice cream that’s not dripping. HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN!?!?!

Thankfully, the restaurants are good enough to help you forget how sad that gorilla sitting behind plate glass is. (Am I the only one who hopes to hear about a story where a gorilla breaks through the glass, starts body slamming only the annoying little kids and starts an ape uprising? If that happens, I can point to this blog to prove my support and, therefore, be one of the few humans spared. *Dunk sounds*) Real quick, here are my favorite Lincoln Park restaurants:

Cafe Ba Ba Reeba
Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinders
Geja’s
Summer House
The Athenian Room

*STAY TUNED FOR PART II OF “THE LIFE OF A CHICAGO RENTER” TOMORROW*

MY WORLD:

Today, I have a quick story about “A Time I Made Myself Laugh By Making The VP of Ops Mad or Uncomfortable.” Well, it’s actually more an ongoing joke than a story. You see, The VP of Ops went to Mississippi State University and talks about how it took her 5 years to graduate because she was such a good times gal (my kinda gal, na’m sayin’?) She’ll retell stories about her 5th year, I think, in an effort to get ahead of anyone who may make some sort of “you’re an idiot”-joke in her direction. Which I am all for because, guess what idiot, The VP is NOT an idiot and I know this because I have seen her read over 3 books! (Jimmy Fliparooski in the building y’all!)

What I will say, though, is that I have never actually seen a physical copy of her Mississippi State diploma. These two eyes have never even been treated to a picture of said diploma. Does it exist? Probably? But, this game of diploma hide-and-seek has gone on for years now and, in the process, has left open the door for one of my favorite jokes. Whenever the VP talks about graduating college, I’ll drop in a nonchalant “so you say,” or say the word “supposedly” while throwing up exaggerated air quotes, or I’ll just ask the person she’s talking to “have you seen her diploma? I haven’t. I’m just curious if someone in the universe has.” The VP of Ops has a difficult time finding the humor in these little jabs; much the way she has a difficult time finding the copy of her Mississippi State diploma. (If I knew how to type out the emoji of the guy holding his hands up like “what?” I would insert that here.)

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Anyone with me and think that the frozen shot idea from Tom Schwartz in last night’s “Vanderpump” finale was actually a really good idea? Is he a legit good bartender? I SAY YES!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

How did they not show any of the following in last night’s “Vanderpump Rules” finale:

Scheana getting dumped by Rob. NEED TO SEE THAT.
Video evidence that James DID hook up with Kristen in Mexico. That 100% happened.
ANY VISUAL EVIDENCE OF LALA’S MAN. Seriously, if you’re a producer on the show, how do you not say “if we can’t put him on air, you’re off the show”?

All in all, a lackluster finale.

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:

I did not bet last night because I’m saving my strength. My bud told me that the Bears over/under win total for next year, though is currently at 6.5. IMMA HAMMER THAT OVER!

(Account currently at $108.14)

K bye.