Country Clubs Suck and Dog Nicknames (4/19/18)

OUR WORLD:

Ever walk into a place and IMMEDIATELY feel like everything there, from the people to the furniture to the paint on the walls, is eager for you to leave? If you’re having trouble coming up with the last place that made you feel this way, let me help you out: think of the last time you were in a country club. Now you get it. Studies show that readers of jimmyschair are 91% less likely to be a member in a country club than the rest of society (studies, guys, we’re talkin’ serious stuff that people wearing tiny glasses wrote about). But you have been to one before because everyone is due to experience an old lady with poofy white hair and an expensive pin (it’s called a “Brooche” you animal) giving you the “leave immediately, or I’ll put a murder-spell on your family”-glare. I got to experience this yesterday on a business (straight cash homie) call, and it reminded me how absolutely obnoxious country clubs are. Why does this appeal to people?

The appeal of being a part of an exclusive club can be attractive, but when entry into that club is determined not by merit, but by your bank account, how does the guilt not taint the membership at least a little bit? Obviously, most people who are well off have worked their asses off earning every nickel they have and there should be no guilt about that. But when those people inhabit the same club as Thomas TrustFund, they…kinda’ become the company they keep. Imagine a scenario where some shlubby dude, let’s call him Jimmy, wearing an old t-shirt and dirty hat gets lost. Jimmy is driving around the middle of suburbia for a while when it starts hailing golf balls as a dense fog rolls in. So pulls in the first driveway he sees and takes it up to a big, old-timey looking house place. He’ll walk in, not noticing the “Members Only” sign that’s small enough that you’d have to wonder if it’s a test. Once inside, soaking wet with bruises on his head from the hail, the 4 members wearing blazers with patches on the elbows, will immediately begin to grumble. The one whose family has been members the longest, Thomas TrustFund, will volunteer to be the enforcer because the mere whiff of danger is intoxicating for this neutered house cat.

“Excuse me sir, are you a member?”-Thomas huffed, knowing full well that members aren’t allowed to wear “Big Dog” t-shirts.

“Oh, shoot I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this was a club. It was just a nightmare outside, so I had to get off the roads.”-Jimmy responded.

Thomas asks Jimmy to “kindly leave”, (which is a thing that only true dickheads say; more offensive for it’s condescension than if someone said “you! yeah you, get da’ fuck outta here!) and will send Jimmy back into the hail tornado. Then Thomas will return to his midday bourbon circle-jerk to clink glasses celebrating exclusivity and how “tough” he just was. Now, if you’re the person who worked your ass off for every nickel you have, but you now own the same douchey blazer as Thomas and have clinked glasses with him, you are now Thomas. Seriously, just change your name.

I can hear my mom reminding me that all people that have money and belong to country clubs aren’t assholes, and that’s probably true. However, if they get to build a club and golf course and pool all with the sole intent of excluding other people, aren’t those excluded people then allowed to label this society as “the dickhead society”? It seems fair, no? You get a pool, we get to unite in calling you dicks.

Is a pool and access to a nice golf course and a private dining room worth being properly labeled as a dick, though? There are super nice public golf courses throughout the country (I know because sometimes I save up and play them and end up wanting to quit about 6 holes in). A pool? Well, that’s tougher, but we all have a friend who has a rich uncle who likes to throw parties. If not, just do what my parents did and get a room at the Glenview Embassy Suites for the night so you can swim in their pool. We’ve already gone over this; hotel pools are the best. A nice restaurant? Are you effing serious, bro? “Newks” is a sandwich chain-restaurant in the south that has better sandwiches than any goofy clubhouse “chef” could slap together. And steakhouses?!?! Every town in America now has that one nice steakhouse that you save up to go to once every 3 years and leave saying “that was SO worth it.”

So the appeal MUST be the status that’s associated with it, and that’s where I’m lost. Bragging about your bank account, however passive aggressive it may be, is something that should be pointed out and mocked every single time. This is why “Caddyshack” was such a great movie (related: I caddied at the club that “Caddyshack” was based on, and it was SPOT. ON. Seriously, it’s stunning how little in that movie was exaggerated.) This is why no matter how many times my Mom tells me to not sounds so judgmental about the people in these places, I can’t resist. This is why whenever I go to one of these places, ready to give them the benefit of the doubt and be surprised by their welcoming nature, I end up leaving disappointed.

Yesterday, while doing BUSINESS, I was asked to take my hat off before entering an empty dining area in a country club where my presence (because of my work) was requested. Not wanting to cause a scene by starting up an impromptu “Hat People Matter”-campaign, I removed my hat and continued our meeting; looking like an absolute asshole with my hat hair. And why did I have to take my hat off? So as not to offend the…oh, wait…NOBODY WAS IN THE DINING ROOM. No no, this is just “club policy”. Give me a fuckin’ break, pal. That’s like a movie usher yelling at someone for using their phone after the movie ended and everyone left and the theater was now empty and dark because that was the last showing of the day. It was almost like this guy thought “now, he must have noticed that his LEASED car stuck out in our parking lot, but let’s really drive the point home that he’s a slob by forcing him to show off his dirty, helmet-like hair in front of the four well-dressed club executives.”

I’m a middle-class white dude who was raised in a very nice suburb and these places make ME feel like sewer matter; I can’t even imagine how they make people less fortunate feel. I hope to make a buttload of money someday, go to a country club that’s struggling with membership and buy the land it’s on so I can tear it down and build my dream: a “Newks” in Illinois. What’s better than a “Newks” sandwich? A “Newks” sandwich that comes with a free round of golf and pool access.

MY WORLD:

With The VP of Ops out of town, I’ve been talking to my dog, Belle, quite a bit more than usual. Fellow dog owners? You feel me? Cha feel? Here are the nicknames that I have bestowed upon Belle:

-Pretty Girl

-Numba One Pretty Gurrrrrrl

-Sundog Millionaire! (said, with an exclamation point, in the villain’s accent from “Slumdog Millionaire”)

-Bubba

-Bubba Shlubba

-Dirty Dog

-Ro Ro

I will keep you all updated on the new ones that my dumb brain comes up with just about every day.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The old couches that are super not comfortable and in every stuffy country club you’ve ever been to.

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 can’t lie to you guys. I wasn’t able to gamble last night and I don’t even know what happened in those games because of work stuff. I apologize for letting you down. Gambler Jimmy will return soon…and with a vengeance.

(My account currently at $204.55)

K bye.

Inside My Dog’s Head and Miserable Live Sports Experiences (4/6/18)

MY WORLD:

Yesterday morning, after I did a little thang called WRITE THIS FUGGIN’ BLOG, I took Belle out for her morning dumperoo (she’s sah kewt). Unfortunately, even though I did my best to avoid all possible human/dog/natural interaction for her, people ended up crossing our path and Belle went psychokiller nuts. Nothing like feeling like a failure of a dog owner at 7 in the morning!

Basically, she after she pooped, I zoned out as I picked it up with my bag-hand (if you were a dog, wouldn’t watching your human clean up your shit be the highlight of your day? Like, “yeah, pick up my shit. That’s what you get for giving me the same bland-ass kibble EVERY FUCKING DAY!”) While zoned out on poop-bag island, a girl on her way to school and a woman walking her dog, walked behind us. In the Pomerantz household, this is known as a “WAIT, NO!”-situation. Belle lunged at the girl, who legit screamed and started running! (If I saw her again I would apologize, but it was over-the-top and kinda’ hilarious.) Then Belle saw the woman and a stranger doggo and IT. WAS. ON. I had to grab Belle by the chest and squeeze her between my legs to keep her from doing Buffalo Bill things to that little stranger dog. The woman walking the other doggo didn’t say anything, but she was judgey with her eyes, I could tell.

As I held my sweet lil baby psychokiller princess between my legs, though, she started to kinda’ pant/cry and it made me feel super sad. It wasn’t a “ouch, your fantastically toned and powerful quads are hurting me, Jimmy”-cry, but more of a “god, life is stressful!”-pant. She was out of breath and, like, just ground down by the stress of it all. I get it! Belle! Dad gets it! And it got me thinking about how her brain must work, and what she must think as we go outside of her safe space (the one-bedroom apartment that she doesn’t have to pay to live in) for a walk in the morning. To help myself understand where Belle is coming from, I would like to ask you to indulge me in a little exercise where I will write as if I am Belle about to go out on a morning walk. Did that sentence make sense? Below this line, Belle is narrating her morning routine (Belle writes in red):

How long do I have to pretend I’m sleeping in this dumpy “bed”? DAD?!? Fuck, thought he moved. Nope, just another mattress-shaking fart from Mom; why Dad is with this sloppy bitch is beyond me. They act like they’re doing me a favor by locking me with them in their bedroom for the night, but now I’m even more stressed because who’s patrolling the kitchen? I bet that asshole dog from downstairs is having a garbage party right now! DAD!?!?!

DAD! Dad you’re up! Hey! Hi! Howdy! Hola! Woo! Dad! Dad! Dad! Oh yeah, gimme dat booty scratch! Oooooooo that’s the spot! Dad! Dad! Dad! What’s the plan today? Breakfast time?!?! Wait! Let me check the kitchen real quick to make sure you’re safe (I sprint to kitchen right when the bedroom door is opened every morning because I care about my Dad and his safety!) COAST IS CLEAR DAD! Oh, you wanna hang in the bathroom? Oh…closing the door in my face. Got it. Makes sense, you need your privacy. Hey, don’t worry about anyone coming in–I’m gonna lay right here to make sure that doesn’t happen. You hear that Mom?!?! Don’t even think about barging in on Dad during his private time! (Mom normally won’t get out of bed for another few hours and that is A-OKAY with me! Maybe she should think about just moving out? I don’t know, just a thought.)

DAD! YOU’RE BACK! How was private time? Bet it was good! You deserve it big guy! Alright, let’s talk turkey–when we going on that walk? It’s not that I have to go that bad, but stuff is happening out there and if I don’t get to bark at it, I’m gonna have a nervous friggin’ breakdown. Dad! RARK! RARK! (yeah, that’s how my “barks” sound; more like “rark!”. I’ve found it’s a more menacing sound than your typical “B-ark” sound.) Did you hear that? Dad! A door opened in our building! RARK RARK RARK! There’s another one! No, I’m not gonna “shush”! Dad, if I “shush” then no one will be afraid to barge in here and steal you away from me. I’d basically be inviting the Dadnappers in here!

Hug time? Yes! (Guys, every morning, Dad sits on the couch next to me and gives me hugs. He doesn’t love when I kiss his pretty face, but I do it anyway.) Yawn? Me too! Dad, watch me yawn! Look! YAWWWWWWN! We have so much in common! You ever think about that Dad? Like…what if you were more than my Dad? Like…what if Mom wasn’t even here? Never mind, I’m silly. Sometimes I say crazy things!

Up again?! Oh, I know that look! IT’S WALKIN’ TIME!!! Okay okay okay, watch this! Dad! Watch this! Spin, spin, spin, spin. Four spins Dad! Not even dizzy! (Yeah, I do use a lot of exclamation points. EXCUSE ME for being excited! NOT! Classic Belle Burn right there) Oh, you’re gonna put that big scary metal collar on me? Okay. Not my fave, but you’re the boss, Dad. Hey, look! You like my smile? Yeah you do! Putting your coat on? Smart. Classic Dad, being smart!

Now Dad, you gotta let me go first down the stairs okay? We don’t know what’s ahead…(am I kinda’ choking my way down the stairs? Yes, but I sacrifice for my Dad.) Did you hear that? DAD! HURRY! COME ON! WE GOTTA RUN DOWN THE STAIRS AND GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE! I HEARD A SOUND THING THAT I DON’T KNOW! COME ON! HURRRRRYYYYYYY!!!!!!!

That was a close one, right? Phew. Hey, it feels great outside! I’m gonna pee now (Dad is always super respectful here, he turns away while I make a tee tee. Dad, the consummate gentleman!) Was that a squirrel? What’s that smell? Who was here? Dad, you smell that?!?! Dad! Dogs were here! Let me investigate…no, I don’t want to keep walking…but, Dad if I don’t smell every one of those blades of grass then….DAD! Ugh, fine. I’m walking. I’m walking.

Pretty quiet out here this morning, just the way I like it. Hold up, I’m gonna do a little pee here so they know this is OUR turf. Dad! Wait! I swear, you don’t understand so many things about turf wars. If it weren’t for me, you’d probably be in a gutter somewhere. Just kidding Dad. Obviously, no one could push around my big strong Dad.

Hey! This is where we cross the street, right? Yep, knew it! Dad! I knew it! Yeah, I’m gonna poop. Dad, I really don’t need you telling me to “go poop” every morning. I get it, you want me to poop. It’s coming, okay? You know what happens when you force a poop, Dad? Bad stuff! Real bad stuff! Speak of the devil, here it comes!

Come on Dad, I gotta be as close to the parked cars as possible. Come on! Okay, here I go. (per usual, Gentleman Dad not looking at me.) All done! Hey Dad, I pooped! Just let me kick up this grass so everyone knows what I did and we’ll be all set. Oh, you’re picking it up? Yeah, that’s nice I guess. Maybe we leave it though? It’s just, I feel bad that you have to-WAIT! DAD! DON’T WORRY I GOT THIS!!!!

RARK RARK RARK RARK GRRRRRRR SHRARK!!!! STAY AWAY FROM MY DAD YOU BACKPACK BITCH!!!! THIS IS OUR FUCKING TURF! OHHHHHH, WHAT?!!?! ANOTHER DOG?!!? SEE WHAT HAPPENS IF HE LETS ME OFF THIS LEASH!!! OH I FUCKING DARE YOU!!!! MAKE A MOVE!

DAD! LET ME GET THEM! DAD, YOU DON’T KNOW THE STREETS LIKE I KNOW THE STREETS! RARK RARK RARK RARK! (He always holds me back, but if he could see me fight…I don’t know, maybe he’d look at me differently? Like, as more than a dog? I don’t know. Oh, silly me!)

Then I walk Belle back through our alley because there is less of a chance of running into any living things. She’s panting the entire way back, like she just finished a marathon. I feel bad and kinda mad and kinda sad that her brain seems to be an absolute stress-bomb of matter. By the time we get back up to our door, though, she seems to be smiling again, having forgotten the stressful nightmare that just occurred. At least that’s what I tell myself…

Hey Dad, I bet Mom isn’t even out of bed yet! You sure she’s “the one”? Asking for a friend…

OUR WORLD:

Yesterday was the White Sox home opener, and if you voluntarily went to that game you should be start lining your walls with pillows cuz you, my friend, are NUTS. Sitting out in the cold for April baseball is a billion percent miserable experience, and it got me thinking…what are some of the most miserable live sports experiences:

–Early-season (so the game is essentially meaningless), freezing baseball game.

–The Kentucky Derby. I have no idea why this appeals to people. Watching horses run for a minute while you’re dressed like an asshole sounds about as fun as going to a little kid’s birthday party. HARD PASS.

–Any regular season college basketball game. Seriously, if it’s not March and you’re not a current student, who cares?

–Any little kids baseball game ever. Even when I was a kid I felt bad for my parents having to watch that dreck sitting on shitty bleachers. Parents should be encouraged to stay home.

–Early season NBA game sitting in the 300 level. You can’t see anything, so you end up watching the jumbotron the whole game. All you’re thinking about is how the seat you’re in is less comfortable than your recliner at home, and the drinks you’re drinking are WEAK and super expensive. What a great time!

–Late season NFL game when your team’s season is already over. When the Bears are 3-9 and people sit outside in a blizzard to watch them play the 4-8 New York Jets, I’m all like “but why?”

That’s all I’ve got for now. It’s still super cold outside, but at least it’s Friday. GO FRIDAY!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I know I’m a little late with this posting, but Sean Penn is cool. I don’t care if he’s messed up on Ambien. He’s still cool.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you shake your bottle of hair conditioner for like five minutes in the shower only to have the last .2 ounces spill out onto your shower wall. NOW MY HAIR’S NOT GONNA BE CONDITIONED!!!

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:

Nobody I bet on for the Masters had an absolute blow up day yesterday, so I’m still feeling good. Honestly, I am so due to win something big, so I’m pretty sure one of my guys is gonna win. Like, almost positive. PRAY FOR ME!

(My account currently at $0.00)

K bye.

Life Predictions and Top Ten Chip List (3/14/2018)

MY WORLD:

Have you been noticing something about this blog? (This is a great lead in for a sick, deep burn at my expense. BRING IT ON!) Jimmy’s Chair is a stone-cold curse maker. If I write about rules for the gym, the next time I go to the gym there will be a guy shadowboxing on the treadmill next to me (this happened last night. I glared at him 3 times and then reminded myself that a guy who shadowboxes on a treadmill at Planet Fitness probably also carries a sharp knife in case he “gets stepped to.” I ain’t steppin!) If I pick a team to win, they will lose (UCLA lost to a made up school last night even though I used my lucky vape pen ON A SCHOOLNIGHT!) If I write about the impending arrival of spring, there will be a snowstorm (I had to pull over for 20 minutes yesterday because it was snowing so hard that I couldn’t see 50 feet in front of me.) With this in mind, I would like to make a few life predictions that I feel confident in and are in no way an attempt at a reverse jinx (everyone act normal. No sudden movements. Shut up shut up shut up shut up)

My dog Belle will never calm down and be nice to anyone aside from The VP of Ops and I. Great! Grand! Wonderful! The VP of Ops texted me about Belle’s latest psycho-freak-out while I was at the gym last night (working out, it’s a thing I do. Running mostly, but that’s because I have kind of a natural muscle tone. Thanks for asking.)

*Here’s the actual text exchange…I don’t know how to make the image smaller, back off.

I’ve come to peace with the fact that Belle will never get better. Dogs are supposed to be cuddly and nice especially when they look like a stuffed animal, but you know what? Even Jeffrey Dahmer’s parents loved him and I wuv my wittle cannibal doggy! I completely accept the fact that bringing her to my parents house is not in the cards. I look forward to the complications that will arise when The VP and I plan a vacation, only to realize that the ONE COUPLE that Belle actually gets along with, is out of town that week. Then, when we ask my brother to housesit, as a last resort, I understand and accept that he will make up an excuse because the one time he did watch her, she growl-barked at him into a corner for over 4 hours (this happened. He called me in Memphis and told me “she’s not calming down”. I responded “you’re breaking up! I can’t hear you!”) Guys, guess who is looking forward to the next time we have to bring Belle to a kennel only to have The VP cry the whole car ride after dropping her off? I AM, GUYS! ME! And when we have kids with psycho-killer-cannibal-dog? Let’s just say, SIGN ME UP! This is going to be great.

The VP of Ops and I will continue to rent one bedroom apartments in Chicago for the next 20 years minimum. Uhhhhhhh “yes, please!” Guys, when you get a chance to live on the third floor of a walk-up in a neighborhood known for carjackings and the occasional drive-by shooting, you find the nearest pen cuz that lease ain’t gonna sign itself! (If my parents or the VP’s parents are reading this, I would like to point out that I once got in a fight in Los Angeles and I didn’t even cry. So…yeah, you could say I’m pretty tough.) Maybe I want my money to go to the pockets of a landlord I’ve never met, who thinks fixing the heat in December is “optional”. Is that so bad? Last I checked, being different is what sets the great ones apart. I’m different, okay? I bet you REGULARS enjoy having bathrooms larger than an “Anorexic” port-a-potty too, huh? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Not me! I’m unique! And beautiful! Look, I can touch both walls in here! And no, I’m not at all bummed at the prospect of having to park at night on Carjack Boulevard for the rest of my adult life. EXCUUUUUUSE ME for marching to the beat of a different drummer!

A hiring person at a major online publication will never read this blog and offer me a well-paying writing job in a warm weather city. Getting up at 6AM to write hundreds of words is something I do because I love the act of writing and, hopefully, making someone having a rough day laugh a little bit. That’s what it’s all about, guys. I’m not here to somehow miraculously, against all odds, build a big audience that could gain the attention of someone at a website like The Ringer, who would then reach out to me with an e-mail with the subject line “Your writing has caught our attention and we have a ton of money to spend on new hires!” I’m not here for that. I’m here because this is a hobby that makes me feel good AND THAT’S IT! Money just doesn’t move my needle, if you catch my drift. Now, I don’t judge you if money is your primary motivation, but that’s just not me. I’m a “for-the-love-of-the-game”-guy. I’m the 38 year minor league catcher content with never making “the show” because I’m here for the guys, for the fans, for the love of the game. If you’re having a rough day at work, boss is really busting your hump, I hope this blog can maybe make you smile…even for just a second. If I can put one smile, on one strangers face, then I’ve done my job here.

Guys, you smell that? That’s the smell of STONE. COLD. LEAD. PIPE. LOCKS. Take these to your bookie and empty all of your accounts with money in them on these predictions. No way in God’s green, beautiful earth these don’t happen. (Don’t move…don’t! Shut up shut up shut up. Act normal!)

OUR WORLD:

WARNING: I’m about to delve into some pretty personal and, frankly, heavy issues. If you’re not okay with possibly crying at your desk, then you may want to re-think reading this section…

It’s National Chip Day. I know this because I love chips (and also because a friend of mine texted me “It’s National Chip Day”). In honor, of these salty, crispy, edible shapes, I would like to present you with my TOP TEN CHIP LIST. Now, I actually compiled a list like this a few weeks back when my friends and I got into a very heated, very prolonged argument about Flamin’ Hot Cheetos (some of these friends are raising kids. I’m excited about the next generation.) Unfortunately, my original TOP TEN CHIP LIST is lost in the sea of this group text, so I’m going to do my best to recreate it here. Oh, and Flamin’ Hot Cheeto-lovers need to get over themselves, you’re not impressing ANYBODY by pretending to like a mediocre/obscure chip. These are the same people that swear they love the taste of Malort. Get da fuck outta here!

JIMMYSCHAIR TOP TEN CHIPS

Kettle “Salt and Vinegar”: The undisputed king chip flavor and Kettle does it best.
Dorito “Nacho Cheese”: The “I haven’t had these in a while”-chip that ALWAYS blows you away.
Lays “Original Salted”: Classic and perfect. You don’t like these? Leave.
Cheddar & Sour Cream Ruffles: The VP intro’d me to these and OH MOMMA JOMMA deez iz good.
Frito Scoops: Yeah, I said it! Fritos are amazing, and guess what? Frito Scoops are just BIGGER Fritos. Bigger = better…everyone knows this.
BBQ Pringles: Pringles always sneak up on you and their BBQ flavor is ON POINT.
Jimmy John’s Jalapeno: They’re spicy, but not too spicy, and go great inside their sandy’s. Beach Club with these smashed in. Goodnight nurse.
Cool Ranch Doritos: Doritos know what they’re doing mmmmkay?
BBQ Lays: A close second to regular Lays. Guess what these go great with? A barbecue. Nailed it.
Cape Cod Salted: These will punish the roof of your mouth, but they’re totally worth it because CHIPS!

Feel free to debate me on these rankings, but know that I am positive that this is the definitive list. If yours is different IN ANY WAY, you obviously don’t know chips. Happy National Chip Day!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

All Hail King Chip!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Worst chip of all time.

Bugles

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:

UCLA losing to St. Bonaventure last night was completely ridiculous for so many reasons that I can’t believe Bovada is actually accepting that it happened. UCLA acting like they’ve never seen a zone defense before is something beyond anyone’s control (except our coach, Steve Alford, who should be FIRED IMMEDIATELY BECAUSE I’M MAD!) That one’s not my fault, plain and simple. Not my fault. Tonight? Listen, I don’t want to lie to you guys, here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to wait until the last minute and then probably empty my Bovada account on Syracuse over Arizona State because Syracuse has a coach who people think is a good coach.

(My account currently at $34.11)

K bye.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

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

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

(My account currently at $13.49)

K bye.