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.

Spring is Coming and Gym Rules (3-13-2018)

OUR WORLD:

Now that daylight savings time has arrived (or left? What’s the difference?) I have started my official countdown to Spring activities! ACTIVITIES! Yes, it’s 31 degrees outside today, but it’s sunny and it’s March 13 and GODDAMNIT I CAN’T TAKE THE WINTER ANYMORE!!! People who live in cold weather cities turn into fatter, sadder, angrier versions of themselves from November through whenever it’s 55+ degrees for three days in a row. This past February, I got so fed up with everything that I bit my steering wheel. And when I say “bit”, I mean I kinda screamed and definitely chomped down on it. You could see teeth marks in my steering wheel for a few hours. There’s bitter cold, shoveling, salt stains on everything, darkness, you have to put those fuckin booties on your dog every time you go outside, and wear that jacket that makes you look puffy AND I’M BITING MY STEERING WHEEL!!!! That’s what a Chicago winter is like; you bite your steering wheel.

So, once March hits, you start thinking about the activities you’re going to get to do that will signify making it through the wars of winter. It’s a time of hope, that lasts until…god, we’re gonna have another snowstorm I know it…

Drinking a beer outside: You’re toasting right in the face of winter once you’re able to do this. “Hey Winter, have fun with the dumb penguins in Antarctica!” It’ll probably still be a little chilly when you have your first outside beer of the season, but you’ll pretend that you’re not shivering and don’t need a jacket. (I said I’m done with jackets!) It will always be my favorite Chicago sight to walk around the blocks of bars in mid-March when it’s 53 degrees and EVERYBODY is sitting outside pretending they’re not cold. It’s such a meatball/hardo-move, but the entire city takes part in it. We are all meatballs.

Pretending you’re excited at a Cubs game before mid-May: Going to Wrigley is straight fantastic, but April/Early-May games are BRUTAL and you’ll never admit that to your friends. Every year, you’ll get invited to a game where the weather won’t be great, and you’ll have to fake that you’re blown-away-excited about going. While there, however, all you’re thinking is “Jesus baseball is slow, this beer stinks and I. AM. FREEZING!” Then you’ll smile at your friends and talk about how glad you are that “baseball is back!”

Buying a new pair of shoes that look AWESOME only when wearing shorts: I bought a pair of light tan leather slipper shoes (don’t know what those are called) that had little pineapple-bombs on them last year. It was a pretty hipster purchase for me, but I was blinded by my early-March excitement and convinced myself that, with shorts, I’d look like one sexy papa in ’em. The next 40 days of wearing mostly pants (and not the pineapple-bomb shoes because they look no bueno with pants) definitely cooled my excitement about these shoes, but the act of buying them is a tradition that is not worth abandoning. This year, I’m thinking, wait for it, about boat shoes. It’s been a while since I rocked the boat shoes and shorts look, but I’m thinking since my wife is southern and Jimmy Good Times LIVES for the summer months, that boat shoes are a due for a Jimmy comeback. (I will be nervous about what people at work say about me wearing boat shoes, but I’m a brave boy. Dad? YOUR SON IS A BRAVE LITTLE BOY!)

I’m aware that full-on warm weather is a ways out, but just shut up and let me dream for once in my miserable life. This is the time of the year for hope. I hope that I’m going to gamble myself into millions during March Madness. I hope that I get to drink a beer outside in the next 2 weeks. I hope that I don’t have to shovel my car out of a parking spot and then get in my car only to get cut off by a guy wearing a skull cap before 7:45 AM. I hope I don’t have to bite my steering wheel again.

MY WORLD:

There are people that go to the gym, that have no right to be there and I feel it is my duty to stand up and say “GET OUT!” While the majority of my time inside the greasy purple walls of Planet Fitness is spent trying to not look at the clock, the remaining time is spent convincing myself not to say anything to the mutant next to me. It’s rush hour traffic with body odor and no laws, I’m amazed there hasn’t been a real life “The Purge: Planet Fitness”. (No, I have not seen any of “The Purge” movies because they’re scary and “Unsolved Mysteries” gave me nightmares as a kid.)

Now, I am aware that some people get nervous about going to the gym. I have friends like this (I call them “Slobs”). I think I understand the fear of being a gym beginner. Nervous about not knowing what to do, not knowing how machines work, being judged for getting gassed after 4 minutes. I get it. I feel like that when I go to the weights section now, after not lifting for like 5 years. (Do what I do when you get gassed super quick; grimace and grab your arm. Try “working it out” by stretching your arm and then shake your head all disappointed like “damn, when will these war injuries heal?!?” Boom, sympathetic character.)

I’m not talking to my “Slobbo” friends (it’s making me laugh, but I don’t mean it). I don’t want to ban beginners. I simply want to institute some rules for the roads. This is what I propose:

1) If you are “the smelly guy/girl” who can’t seem to shake B.O., then you either have to wrap your pits with industrial saran wrap, or wear a MINIMUM of 6 thick sweatshirts to hide the stink. Look, thankfully I have not been cursed with chronic B.O. and while I’m sympathetic to those who have been, there MUST be more awareness. When I’m on the treadmill and Shteve (not “Steve,” his name is “Shteve”), the data miner/amateur gamer, gets on the one next to me with his nerd B.O. I have to stop myself EVERY TIME from stopping my treadmill just to glare at him while shaking my head. (Instead, I’ll normally do cool passive aggressive things like audibly sighing or coughing.) I don’t know if B.O. is like a medical issue without a cure (probably? right?) but you can’t dare people to offend you by pretending it’s not there. (Did you say I stink? YOU’RE A STINKIST!) Listen, I get some gnarly looking rashes on the backs of my knees sometimes, and you know what I do? I WRAP THEM UP BECAUSE I AM SELF-CONSCIOUS AND DO NOT WISH TO SUBJECT THE PUBLIC TO THIS HORRIFIC SIGHT! In short, if you stink, get out.

2) When getting dressed in the locker room, pants go on as soon as humanely possible. What childhood trauma happened to these people who put their shirts on first? If you put your shirt on first when getting dressed, your credit score should be docked 800 points because it’s time you leave this society. Now, I don’t know about ladies locker rooms (because I don’t go in there, but I do have certain dreams about it and I do not wish to hear about your stories that do not align EXACTLY with my dreams. Thanks for understanding,) BUT, men’s locker rooms in gyms that have men over the age of 50 are an absolute horror show. I think something snaps with guys who have been married for 20+ years where the only way they can remind themselves that their balls actually do exist is by parading around their gym’s locker room in a shirt and no pants. “Look everyone! My testicles ARE here! All of these mirrors and your horrified faces are proof!”

Ladies, this is a common thing in Men’s locker rooms. An older dude will shower, come out of the shower and put the towel around his shoulders as he SLOWLY saunters his fat ass back to his locker. Once there, he’ll sit down (BARE-ASS!) on the bench in front of the lockers for a not-so-quick breather. Men like me (sane people) gasp at each other, in a whispered panic, to remind each other that this is not okay. Old Balls McGee then, FINALLY, begins to get dressed only to disappoint EVERYONE IN THE HISTORY OF SOCIETY when he puts a shirt on and hits pause on the dressing process. (Wait? You’re done? NO!!! SIR!!! THE PANTS!!! THE PANTS!!!) He’ll then take a lap around the locker room to make us all feel bad for his wife before using the hair dryer on the 8 hairs still in his dome…AND THEN HE USES THE SAME HAIR DRYER ON HIS BALLS IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR!

If the FBI hasn’t already begun forming a task force, I have lost faith in my government.

3) If you are walking on a treadmill next to your companion and carrying on a conversation the entire time, you might as well be at home. I’m not saying you can’t talk to someone, but the gym is a stop-and-chat-zone ONLY! When I can’t fully hear my Bill Simmons Podcast because you’re too busy recounting why your boss sucks to your friend for 45 minutes, I should be allowed to chop both your heads off with an axe (I have thought of the appropriate punishment for this offense for years, and there’s no way around it, the loppin’ off the head with an axe move makes the most sense.) Listen, I’m not a fan of treadmill walkers to begin with, but if you’re able to carry on a full conversation throughout a “workout”…YOU’RE NOT WORKING OUT! You’re supposed to be panting, or at least focusing on how to breathe normally so you don’t pass out, fall down and get shot back into the wall by the belt of your treadmill. (One time, I closed my eyes while on a treadmill, took a wrong step and got catapulted into the wall behind me by the treadmill. Unrelated, I did not get laid in High School.)

What these walker talkers must understand is that everyone else in the gym is trying to distract themselves from the fact that they are in the gym. That’s why there are televisions and podcasts and music. It allows you to zone out, and forget that you’re doing something that’s not that fun. However, once that zone-out-zone is penetrated by your shrill voice and dull stories, the illusion disappears and we remember that we’re in fucking Planet Fitness and not eating Salt & Vinegar chips while watching Sportscenter. The way you would never wake a sleepwalker, do not disrupt the workout zone-out.

That’s it, guys. Those are the 3 main rules: No stink, no balls, no talk. There are many other things at the gym that annoy the shit out of me, but I will keep those to myself like a proper Irish-Catholic rage bottler that I am. If you are a gym newbie and you follow these rules…I don’t know, I’ll probably find something else you there that’ll annoy me because I LIKE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT PEOPLE I WILL PROBABLY NEVER GET TO KNOW!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Almost warm = spring = baseball = fathers and sons making grown men strangers cry with sweet moments like this

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Screen Shot 2018-03-13 at 10.17.16 AM.png

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’s play-in game is tonight against St. Bonaventure and I’m going to bet on UCLA (-3.5) because I went there and I have never seen St. Bonaventure play basketball. Do I think UCLA is any good this year? Not really. BUT! When you’re dumb and don’t know anything about one of the teams playing, but you like to gamble, you put money on the team you want to root for. Classic Jimmy move here.

(My account currently at $59.11)

K bye.

I Just Got Hit By A Car (3/8/2018)

MY LIFE:

I didn’t plan on writing this so soon in the life of JimmysChair, but sometimes life spills cheap marinara sauce down your white button-down shirt. Well, this morning, that drippy spaghetti sauce found my shirt. Here goes…I think I’m definitely a sucker, guys. (Where is this going? What happened? JIMMY! TELL US! THE ANTICIPATION! DEAR GOD, THE ANTICIPATION!)

Being a responsible car-leaser (mos def does not sound as cool as “car owner”, but we don’t lie on these pages) I was due to bring my 2015 Chevrolet Equinox in for an oil change at 7AM this morning. I made the appointment ahead of time because PLANNING! I figured that leaving the city so early would help me avoid the stress of traffic, and maybe I would even have enough time to have my morning nana and coffee at a restaurant like Starbucks. Oh boyyyyyy!

Unfortunately, while heading down Division St. in bumper to bumper traffic at 6:23AM (life!) I was rear-the-fuck-ended. Hard, guys. I immediately, angrily yelped a guttural “NOOOO!!!!” In the land of Progressive Insurance and a leased SUV, the crunch-sound of a minor accident sounds EXACTLY like the sound my phone makes when Chase texts me a low-balance notification. I pulled over and hoped an apologetic, millionaire was driving this Pontiac Grand Prix to prove how humble millionaires can be.

Surprisingly, the driver was not an apologetic millionaire (this Jimmy fella’ is a real GOOF!). Instead, he was a mid 50s guy wearing a flat-brim hat (not good) who pulled over, immediately opened his door and began bawling crying “I don’t have a license!!!” Don’t worry though, it gets better. As I debated calling the cops on a grown man crying, I told him I was going to take pictures of our cars. Then my phone died cuz I dare it to every night, hoping that it’ll overcome the adversity of 6% battery and build phone-character.

My phone is a weak weak phone and I am a weak weak man. Like father, like phone. I told “Cryface McFlatBrim” that I wasn’t going to call the cops on him. Honestly, it was awful seeing this. I know what it’s like to be in some difficult times, but I’ve never cried in front of a grown man stranger. That’s the type of “fuck-I’m-in-BIG-trouble”-stuff that nightmares are made of. I’m guessing jail was on his horizon if I called the cops. I can’t do that to someone who hasn’t made me bleed.

Being the sweetheart of a sucker that I am, I told him that I needed to take down ALL of his information. I took down his license plate #, insurance card of his wife, VIN, a urine sample, his iPhone passcode, his deepest darkest secret, and recorded his opinion on whether the “Making A Murderer” proved, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Steven Avery is not guilty. Why did I trust him? (Is that my Dad screaming “you idiot!”? He may not say it, but he’s proud of me.) I trusted him because he told me he worked at General Motors and he said “I’m a trustworthy guy.” That’s kind of exactly what you want to hear if you’re wondering if a guy is trustworthy, right? YUP!

Now, I’m writing this in the “work lounge” of my car dealership while eating a hollowed out bagel (stress cancels out cals and carbs).

work lounge bagel

This story is about to continue with the estimate for the body damage that I’m waiting on. The Body Shop manager is big time car-dealery guy named Steve, and I feel like I’m in the waiting room of a dentist office with a broken tooth. The news he’s about to deliver can’t be good…and Cryface McFlatBrim is probably buying another hat that he’s too old to pull off with the money he should be sending my bumper’s way. I’m gonna shoot him a text while I wait (I did get his phone number, Dad.)

I’ll wrap up this story on tomorrow’s blog. (This is a supes profesh thingy called a “tease”).

OUR LIFE:

I want to write about why early-March is the worst time of year, but my brain is currently locked up in a self-loathing death spiral because I trusted that crying guy who hit my car. Whenever I’m able to momentarily block that out, I’m hit with a digestional/morning-coffee issue that is not meant to be resolved in a Chevrolet dealership. (I HANDLE ADVERSITY WITH APLOMB!)

So…uh…March stinks cuz it’s a total tease and I’m tired of wearing jackets that make me look puffy. (No joke, my stomach just made an old-timey, British police siren sound. Right now, my inner-self is making an ugly cry face while saying “I just can’t” over and over again).

I just can’t, guys.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I very much wish this was the guy driving behind me this morning.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Guys over 50 who wear flat-brim hats can go straight to hell.

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:

Oh yay, now I get to relive another kick to my nuts. I bet on South Carolina (-2.5) last night against Ole Miss. SC was up 4…until Ole Miss hit a meaningless 3 at the buzzer for a backdoor cover. Cool God, fun joke. I have yet to pick a winner on this blog which is amazing. Seriously, it’s amazing. If I was TRYING to lose 8 picks in a row, I couldn’t do it. Therefore, I have decided that naming this section “MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN” is a jinx. Thus, I am renaming this section to “MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENIUNELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE”

Today, I’m on Virginia, SMU and Boston College against the spread.

(My account currently at $34.28)

K bye.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lunch: A fried buffalo chicken wrap and fries.

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

Dinner: Pepperoni Pizza. Duh.

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

What do you think of that, Sharon?

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

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

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

Needless to say, I am RATTLED.

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

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

K bye.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

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

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

(My account currently at $13.49)

K bye.