A Message to Liars and NFL Predictions

MY WORLD:

Sometimes when I get in the shower, after looking myself in the mirror, lifting my shoulders and saying “not bad”, I think that this lifting and not-dieting thing is actually working. This logic, a fantastic discovery according to my shower-brain, draws a correlation between thinking about your diet and weight gain: the more you think about what you’re eating, the more you gain from what you’re eating. A breakthrough, to put it mildly, in the weight-loss world. “If I just don’t think about gaining weight, but I do think about being healthy, then I shall be healthy.” My shower-brain is imaginative and optimistic and nice, and that’s what I want to be. I want to be my shower-brain.

Unfortunately, my after-shower-brain, has the personality of sandpaper, and the tact of a goddamn two-by-four to the back of the head. Now, was it my fault, that I tried putting on a t-shirt I KNEW wasn’t going to fit right after I got out of the shower and in front of my bedroom mirror? Or, was it my shower-brain’s fault for gently whispering “it’s working, Jimmy. All you have to do is believe!” as I rifled through the “dude, it’s been years since these fit right”-part of my shirt drawer. I like my shower-brain, so let’s just take it easy on SB. I believed! I put the pink shirt on (you can’t make fun of that color anymore cuz it’s offensive so shut up, asshole) and what I thought was still my shower-brain grunted, “look in the mirror.” Lo and behold, the tightness I was feeling around my midsection was NOT my silly imagination playing a classsssssic tummy goof on me “tehehehe, you’re not fat! Gotcha!” No. My mirror revealed a tire-like midsection, which caused my after-shower-brain, the one you see in italics throughout many Jimmyschair posts, to roar with the brand of mean-spirited laughter typically found in judging panels from early 2000s reality shows. “You’re fat. Now put on the bigger workout shirt, and leave.” But…but! “Those khakis you wore a few months back that you’re scared to try on again? Yeah, no chance. Goodbye. NEXT!”

That’s also exactly what having my student loans is like. (Did somebody say CURVEBALL?!?!?!). Most days I don’t dwell on the fact that there’s a big number that exists solely to hurt MY feelings. Be it on the scale or on the student loan website, which can be found by simply typing ThisWillReallyBumYouOut.com into the address bar on your web browser, there are numbers that exist to throw your shower-brain down a flight of metal-edged stairs (you just have to BELIEVE you’re going to land softly!)

I’ve been thinking a lot about my student loans, um, always (and also about your fat midsection, tell them about that again!) but especially since news of the forgiveness plan and end of the payment pause. A lot of people have politically-aligned opinions on this plan that, as my after-shower-brain would put it, piss me the fuck off. Fully embracing my after-shower-brain, I’d like to address the people against student loan forgiveness.

I don’t think I’m entitled to anything. Really. And honestly, I have so much student loan debt that this forgiveness plan really doesn’t help me much at all. This forgiveness plan is the equivalent of me sneezing before putting on the tiny pink shirt this morning (not tiny, just a medium) and thinking the resulting weight loss from that sneeze would help the fit of that teeny tiny baby shirt. A medium? My student loans shop in the “Wow, this big?” section of the Big and Tall store.

And it’s this weight that gives me the credibility to have a fucking opinion on this plan. A credibility, that I would gleefully shed myself of if ever offered, that is lacking from most of the people I have heard, seen and read sharing their opinions. If you’re not fat, don’t talk about how hard it is being fat! Instead of commenting on individual facebook posts or text message chains or writing in to some stupid news opinion douche, I’d like to say here that if you have an opinion on this forgiveness plan, without having any experience carrying any student loan debt, kindly grab a sock from the bottom of your laundry hamper, push it FAR down your throat, and choke on it.

Congratulations if you went to school 50-plus years ago when tuition was eight dollars, or if you had parents who worked hard enough to earn the kind of money that disqualifies loans from your equation, or if you didn’t go to school because it was too expensive and now find yourself in a job that pays you well enough to buy a computer that gives you the ability to write “not my problem” in the Facebook comment section. Sincerely, congratulations.

I know that a major part of your opposition is rooted in a desire for the people benefitting from this plan (me) to acknowledge the superiority of the people not benefitting from this plan (you). I wish I was one of you people. You people are in a better situation than I am, and I full-heartedly admit to being jealous of you. This is not an argument about who is better. You are. I admit that. My name is honesty. Have we met?

It appears not, unfortunately, as you continue to try sheathing this an argument behind the “well, I shouldn’t have to pay for your bad financial decision”-curtain. Hey Oz, we all know this is just about you not getting something that me and the rest of the regretful fatsos who believed a degree would lead them to your promised land are getting. You’re not getting something that others are, and you’re pissed. So can you at least stop lying about why you’re pissed? You’re not pissed about having to “foot the bill.” You’re fucking not, liar. This will be paid for by the federal government adding to a deficit, which you don’t understand but are pretending to online. Eventually, could our taxes be raised slightly? Maybe. Or, could it be paid for by…spending 17 trillion instead of 18 trillion dollars on the defense budget? Or, by maybe making Amazon pay more than zero dollars in taxes? Or, by the same way we paid for the bank bailouts, airline bailouts, auto bailouts, or whateverthefuck bailouts that came before that you had ZERO opinion about?

I know you’re the kind of person that loves saying “life isn’t fair.” So think about that for a second. Done? Great. Life also evolves and we should attempt to correct mistakes unearthed over time and help people that could really use it, right? What because you were hazed when you joined the Alpha Sigma Dickhead, every person that joins that frat for the rest of time should also have to eat shit and chug Smirnoff? There are young adults and aging parents who have been shaken down by the higher education system for DECADES that are finally getting to catch their breath. You’re screaming at people who are running from a burning building that is chasing them.

These are people that would not have been able to go to school without these predatory loans with obscene interest rates that enriched college administrators while graduate students taught undergraduate classes for pennies. When I was a graduate student at UCLA, I taught an undergraduate class. I was totally unqualified, leaned on watching film and television clips WAY TOO MUCH, and was paid like $100 per week. Those undergraduate students were paying upwards of $30,000 a year to take classes from a dope like me who would put on an episode of “Frasier” to eat up 30 of the 50 minute class. These universities robbed people blind and just because you didn’t see robbery in real-time doesn’t give you the right to blame the victims for not being more aware of their surroundings. (Pretty sure 18 year-old UCLA students probably knew you were too dumb to be teaching them, though.)

I, on the other hand, do have that right and do blame myself. I don’t deserve this forgiveness. I went to graduate school at 23 and took out an obscene amount of loans without properly evaluating how that would impact my life going forward. It’s a decision that I wrestle with on a daily basis because saying you regret going to school is something nobody wants to hear. But, I think I do regret it. And I wish that there was more education before “my education” about what carrying loans really means for your future. And I wish that I would’ve just read a bunch of books about screenwriting instead of being sucked into an unbelievable marketing campaign that made me believe that simply by attending UCLA, I would become a professional screenwriter. I learned a ton in Westwood, but it’s all about hard work. I know that now, and I should have known that then. But I got caught up in the power of “belief” (goddamn shower-brain) and ended up docusigning myself into an adulthood of playing financial catch-up.

The medium pink shirt is too tight for me to wear because I’ve been eating too many carbs and not doing enough cardio. I do not deserve this student loan forgiveness, and I regret making the decision to earn an MFA from UCLA.

Your turn.

OUR WORLD:

It’s a beautiful Friday and I just wrote a pretty angry “My World” section. So….(awkwardly putting your hands in your pockets and rocking back in forth)…what else is going on?

The NFL starts this weekend and I have some predictions I would like to share about the upcoming season:

We’re all going to be annoyed having to watch Thursday Night Football on Amazon Prime.
- The games usually suck, we know that now, so having to take the extra 9 seconds to find the Amazon app on our Smart TVs is going to really take our anger to the next level. (How did someone so lazy ever run a marathon? And, no, that was not a sly way of reminding people that you ran a marathon.)
- I ran a marathon.
The Packers are going to win the NFC and Aaron Rodgers is going to revel in a “Going to the Super Bowl means I was right about Covid”-season.
- He still wasn’t right about Covid, though.
Kyler Murray is going to win the MVP.
- How do you get paid and somehow become more motivated than before? Have the entire NFL world call you a lazy dummy and your lead receiver get suspended for 6 games. I don’t know what has happened to Kyler and the Cardinals late in the season the past two years, but I kinda think it’s just flukey. I love that he’ll be throwing to fellow former-Sooner Hollywood Brown, the Cardinals will surprise people in a weak NFC, and I think Kingsbury is…don’t say it…actually good at calling offense. The defense will suck and the Cardinals will lose in the first round of the playoffs, but Kyler’s going off this season.
The Bucs will not make the playoffs.
- This is all a bet on Tom Brady not being great this year. I think his off-season went like this–he retired with a secret plan to get to the Dolphins. When the Dolphins thing fell through, and Giselle then found out about the secret plan, she got pissed and left him. Solo Tom was then alone at home and said, “well, I guess I should just go play football then.” So he went back to the Bucs without really wanting to go back there, and now he’s a 45 year-old quarterback who only kinda’ wants to be there.
The Carolina Panthers will make the playoffs.
- Baker Mayfield is significantly better than Sam Darnold, and Christian McCaffery is the best dual-threat running back in the league. I like the players they have on defense, and they’re in a division with Marcus Mariota, Jameis Winston, and Tom “I guess I’ll play” Brady. Give me a pissed off Baker in a contract year.
This is the last year of the currently-constituted FOX pregame show
- Terry, Howie, and Jimmy just kinda suck now and this is the year FOX finally realizes that Terry Bradshaw isn’t funny, and Michael Strahan isn’t interesting. NFL pregame shows, in general, need a total makeover, and I think it starts after this year. Why not copy the “College Gameday” format and do the shows from tailgates at the biggest games of the week?

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The new Steve Carell show, “The Patient”, on FX.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

That new movie with The Rock. We all know it’s going to suck and we need to tell every teenager who’s thinking of buying a ticket not to because it will only encourage more sucky movies being made in the future.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I actually forgot one last NFL prediction for this season….

The Bears will beat the 49ers on opening weekend.

Bears moneyline is currently +250.

K bye.

That First NFL Sunday Morning of the Year

*Trying something new-ish today. From time to time, when I don’t feel like there’s a ton going on in either “my world” or “our world,” I’m going to fantasize about something that I am realistically excited about. I’m going to call it “34-Year-Old Dude Mundane Fantasy Time”

34-YEAR-OLD DUDE MUNDANE FANTASY TIME:

-First NFL Sunday Morning of the Year-

Close your eyes with me for a little bit (yes, even if you’re driving). It’s the first full NFL Sunday of the year, and since you stopped yourself after beer #3 last night , you’re up before 7am. You kinda wake your wife up on purpose as you make your way out of bed, but you pretend like it’s an accident, and say something like “shit, I’m sorry. Hey, I’m going to the gym.” She needs to know that you’re going to the gym (those not-washboard-abs be damned!). You get to the gym and make eye contact with a few people inside. Guess what? This is the responsible adults club and, by showing up early on a Sunday, you’re now a part of it; don’t forget to pick up your “Look-At-Me-Not-Wasting-Plastic”-tote bag.

Now what you do during this gym visit won’t matter as long as you’re there for at least 48 minutes. The bike with the recliner seat on the back? Yeah, that’s fine. But, keep in mind, if you actually do break a sweat, then you can get a bagel on your way back. NFL Pregame shows are on every single television, and most of the people there are wearing some sort of Bears something. As you climb on the elliptical (the winner of the “hey, it’s not the easiest machine in here”-award) you share a look with the woman next to you, and connect…”Go Bears,” you say. Unfortunately, she was wearing headphones, which was obvious because headphones aren’t invisible, so now she’s scrunching her face and taking her headphones off mid-workout. “No, no, it’s ok-” but it’s too late.

“What did you say?” She annoyingly asks.

“Nevermind, sorry.” Okay, minor bump in the road. Don’t let it derail your First NFL Sunday mood. DON’T CRY! STOP CRYING!!! Distract yourself by pushing yourself into those supremely awkward “is this what running in outer space is like?”-elliptical movements. You’ve got a fantasy football podcast going and guess what? THAT HEADPHONE WEARING STRUMPET NEXT TO YOU BE DAMNED!!! YOU’RE FUCKING BACK! Matta’ fack, take a look at what resistance she’s doing, go a few levels higher on your machine and make a promise to yourself that you won’t get off your elliptical before she gets off hers….NO MATTER WHAT! If she catches you looking at her screen, that’s fine. Let her deal with her own insecurities, did Jordan feel bad for dunking on white guards? Not your fault that you’re a psychopath elliptical killer.

After dominating a 50 minute elliptical session, guess what time it is? Yep, it’s time to walk out of the gym and over to the bagel and coffee place a half block away. Before returning to your kingdom, you must treat the hungover scoundrels to a “this is what an adult looks like on a Sunday morning”-show.

You know you’ve earned a bagel with extra cream cheese, so order that shit, but make sure you loudly say “excuse me!” while pointing at your very sweaty t-shirt to anyone who gets close to you. If you feel like expanding that to a “excuse me, I got up at 7 on a Sunday and worked out for an hour which is why my shirt is so so so sweaty and I don’t want you and the sleep in your eyes to accidentally touch it and be grossed out,” that’s fine. A little long? Sure, but being isn’t being completely honest always okay?

Once you get back to your apartment, with an extra iced coffee for your VP of Ops (not my VP, right?…Wait, what? She said she was staying at her friends last night…) Your VP will, most likely, have something like Food Network, or Not-Football on TV, but once you walk in she’ll know that her television minutes are numbered. How mad can she get, though, when you hand over her iced coffee, made exactly the way she likes it, AND you offer to split your bagel with cream cheese with her? You debated the entire ride home whether you’d offer to split the bagel, and decided that there’s no way out of it (why didn’t you just get a second bagel YOU IDIOT!!!)

“Half for you, half for me,” you say while praying that she says ”no thanks, you earned the whole-”

“Perfect! Thanks babe!” As she extends an open hand….

Okay, that did not go as planned and now you’re really sad, BUT! BUT! Working out following by only half a bagel? Get ready to try those college jeans on again because you are now OFFICIALLY SKINNY! (Make sure you give her the bottom half of the bagel. Enjoy that plain-ass bottom babayyy!)

It’s a little before 10am, so you’re practically tingling with football electricity right now. You’ve got 11 minutes to shower before the least horrible NFL pregame show starts, so clock is ticking, But, once you get in the bathroom, you look down at your phone and remember, “I haven’t told my group chat that I worked out yet.” The chat is on fire about fantasy and gambling bullshit, but you passively insert yourself by texting out something that starts with “now that I got the gym out of the way…” Now they know. All the other slobs in the group now feel guilty for eating their unearned toaster strudels. Mission Goddamn Accomplished.

It’ll seem like you should shower while listening to that Fantasy Football Podcast, but come on, even you know that podcast is boring. (Are there people in the world that take silent showers?) So switch it up for those last 9 minutes before NFL Pregame and put some music, like Eric Church or Darius Rucker’s “Wagon Wheel” on. I’m talking music that screams good times, beers and sun. Even if it’s raining. Sing along in the shower, and while it doesn’t have to be loud enough for Old Wifey to hear it, if you’re feeling into it, don’t hold back. This is your friggin’ day, random 34 year-old dude.

Towel around your waste, stroll through the living room holding your Eric Church-blastin’ iPhone while doing that cool sway strut on your way to change. If you’re really looking to enter that “annoying, but funny”-zone, I suggest standing directly in front of the television your VP is watching and pretending not to hear her when she asks you to move. It’ll start as funny, then she’ll get bad, but if you hold strong, it’ll return to funny. Be patient.

Change into your stretchy jeans (what an invention!) and that Bears t-shirt you bought in college, but is big and soft enough to still not look ridiculous. When you re-emerge from the bedroom, donning your best NFL FanDude uniform, be prepared for your VP to play some whole “I’m not giving you the remote”-game. Now, listen carefully because this is a very dangerous time for all of us. At first, you’ll think it’s cute when she holds the remote away, or sits on it, or runs into the other room with it. But when she continues for that extra 1.3 minutes, that may extend to the start of that pregame show you’re aiming for, DO NOT ENTER THE LEGITIMATE ANGER ZONE. GUYS! IT’S NOT WORTH IT! This means avoiding the following:

Throwing a harsh cuss in, like “just gimme the FUCKING remote!”
Saying “I’ll just watch it in the bedroom” and then, having re-entered the bedroom, slamming the door.
Bringing up the coffee and half bagel you got her no less than 16 minutes ago in an attempt to drown her in guilt lagoon.

Just be cool, be cool, EVERYONE BE COOL!!! (But be careful not to fake-laugh too hard either because that’ll just extend this).

When she relents, feel free to drop a “you know what? Actually, you wanna watch one more ‘Barefoot Contessa’?” and when she begins to light up, give her the old “PSYCHHHHHH!!!! FOOTBALL TIME BABAYYYYY!!!”

Phone in hand, computer screen on the coffee table in front of you, it’s football time. The only thing left is your inner countdown to when you can crack that first beer. I say as long as you’re within 30 minutes of game time, you’re golden. And if that feels like forever away, remember that your “get out of beer jail”-card is a bloody mary.

Wait, you hear that?

Cody Parkey Shot Me In The Head With A Gun

OUR WORLD:

Remember when you were a little kid playing some dumb kid game, like soccer, and you’d get the wind knocked out of you? All the air in your body was just forced out and before you know it, every one of your friends is looking at you wondering why you can’t talk or move or breathe. Meanwhile, inside your head all you can think is “please don’t cry, please don’t cry, please don’t…am I going to die?!?!?!” The cool kids in your grade can’t believe that you’ve been paralyzed by a half-inflated, rubber soccer ball, and the dorky kids in your grade aren’t defending you because they’re scared of the cool kids. You’re fucked. You can’t breathe and you can’t admit that you can’t breathe because not being able to breathe is SO LAME! (Don’t forget to pack your inhaler in your work bag today Jimmy!) “Hey Jimmy, you okay?” was answered with the look you give yourself in the mirror right before you’re about to burst into tears. Unfortunately, when I’d try to respond with an “I’m cool dude,” it sounded more like “Ibba cu–” followed by a cut-off dry heave.

And that is how every rational adult Bears fan felt after Sunday night’s game. Laying on my back, after unsuccesfully trying to lean Parkey’s kick in, The VP asked if I was okay. I wasn’t and I felt so fucking dumb that I wasn’t. We’re talking your classic double not-okay here, folks. Kids are allowed to cry after tough sports losses and be consoled by their parents without being made to feel like a silly asshole for caring so much about something they stand to gain nothing tangible from. But rational adults with real relationships and bills and an ounce of self-awareness, know that crying on the ground and screaming at your spouse following a loss like that is socially frowned upon. Instead, the rational lunatics (definitely not an oxymoron) go quiet, hiding the fact that we can’t breathe by making a constipated facial expression when asked “are you okay?”

The thing that makes sports heartbreak worse is the feeling that comes when trying to explain said heartbreak to a non-sports fan. Even if you’re not a Bears fan, you could empathize with us on Sunday night because there has been a time in your life you remember some stranger ruining your day or night by not doing something you could never do (like kick a 43 yard field goal) But when you live with someone who doesn’t care about sports, like the friggin’ VP, you’re left to lay on your back while trying to explain how 33 years hasn’t given you enough perspective to not have Cody Parkey ruin, at minimum, your next 48 hours.

The VP said nice stuff like “oh, I’m so sorry,” and she probably meant it, but it just made me feel even dumber. Is she sorry that she married someone who wears sweatpants and asks their dog to sit near him during important plays because he thinks she is good luck? Probably, right? If a fellow true fan were in the apartment with me on Sunday night, there would have been no words for at least 4 minutes after that kick doinked. Then, the next 4 hours would have been filled with loud exhales, slow motion head shakes, and the occasional “I just…man…ugh.” What’s even better is the next day at work, when people YOU KNOW think sports are dumb (I call these people ‘dogs’) ask you how you’re doing.

“Hey Jimmy, the Bears, huh? How are you doing”-Gene

I want to drown myself in the lake but I see that little smirk peaking out of your mouth while asking that question so I’ll just hit you with a “tough game, Gene,” on my way to the bathroom stall where I can fill my mouth with toilet paper and scream without being heard.

I’m jealous of the fans I see who screamed and broke shit and were part any video that non-fans make fun of the day after. I wish I could be momentarily blinded by rage or disgust to get it all out of my system at once. Instead, I try to bottle most of it up, but there’s a leak and it slowly spreads to all of my organs the way a pinhole in a maple syrup bottle could ruin your entire refrigerator. For adult fans like me, yesterday felt like being covered in Aunt Jemima’s, when you’re a devoted bacon & eggs breakfast man.

I write this in the “Our World” section of today’s Chair because those five paragraphs should act as a test of true fandom. If you read laughed, EVEN ONCE!, during those paragraphs, you are not a true fan. If, however, you cringed and shook your head and related, then congratulations, happy to have you alongside me in this Uber to the island of caring too much about things that shouldn’t matter. (Wait…how can an Uber get to an island? GET OUT!!! YOU’RE ALL GONNA DROWN!!!)

The reason why fake fans piss me and the rest of my soon-to-drown brethren off so much is because WE KNOW that the fake fans never feel pain like this. To get to participate in the euphoria of your team actually winning big, you better have been brought to your knees by that same team before. It’s like being born rich versus being born poor and becoming rich. When a fake fan posts pics or videos of them celebrating “their team’s” win, it induces the same feelings as when a rich kid posts a picture of the new BMW their daddy just bought them. No struggle, no celebration. Remember all of those kids crowding the streets following the Cubs World Series win? Every single one of those snot-nosed pill poppers better have skinned their knees falling to the ground from Parkey’s double doink.

Thus, to avoid the wrath of REAL FANS LIKE US (adults with undiagnosed psychological problems), ask yourself the following questions before you post a celebratory pic or video following a big win:

Have I ever cried alone in the bathroom following a sports team I care about losing?
Have I ever called a radio station to advocate a coach with a family getting fired around Christmastime?
Have I ever called off of work the day following a tough loss not because I was hungover, but just too sad?

If you answer “no” to all of those questions, then you are, henceforth, not allowed to post any celebratory pics or videos following a sports win. As Judge for real sports fans everywhere, I declare this ruling final.

Oh, and finally, if you’re one of those softies who has said “I actually feel bad for Cody Parkey,” I would like you to know that, yesterday, he shot me in the head with a gun and it was totally unprovoked. He just came up to me on the street while I was with my wife and my mom and my doggy and he shot me in the head. Charges are pending. Feel bad for him now?

MY WORLD:

I’m not exactly proud to admit this, but I thought about my dog killing herself this morning it made me feel…relieved…and a little…oh boy…excited? (Whoa, Jimmy no. This is where the world turns against you!) LET ME EXPLAIN LET ME EXPLAIN!

I was taking my psychotic lab mix (it’s a labradoodle, Jimmy, just admit that) for a walk this morning when she went ABSOLUTELY BONKERS INSANE towards two nice dogs across the street. The two dogs were doing NOTHING, which Belle, evidently, took as an immediate threat to all of mankind so she acted accordingly: growling, barking and pulling on the leash like she was trying to escape an active volcano. Meanwhile, I’m in prime “it’s 7 in the morning, and I’m wearing sweatpants in public”-mode. Needless to say, I was not prepared to play tug of war with a crazed beast. And what can you do? I can’t hit her because people that hit dogs are all-time assholes. If I yank on her choke collar too hard, I’m reported to Animal Control. If I scream at her, people start wondering how I treat my wife because you know they see my shiny gold ring. BUT! BUT! If I’m completely unable to break my dog’s fury, then I get the “he obviously doesn’t know how to raise a dog”-looks from people with nicer cars than me. It’s an absolute no-win situation.

So when PsychoMurdererFurryDogGirl and I got back home, I texted The VP that I just had a front-row seat to Belle’s worst walk ever. I had slammed the door when we got back which caused Belle to run into our bedroom and under our bed. So she’s the victim now? JESUS CHRIST! The VP texted back imploring me to “love on her” so she didn’t kill herself when I left today. Which, got me to thinking…if I left for work and came back to find Belle had OD’d on the CBD that we got her last week, that has yet to change her behavior one iota, would I be sad or…not sad?

Honestly, I would be sad…and then a little happy that we’d be able to get a dog that wouldn’t send me into a near panic-attack anytime we have people over. I’m not saying I want Belle to kill herself. I am NOT saying that. BUT! If she happened to OD on a drug that made her feel maybe a little too amazing, I mean..there are worse ways to go. And also…like, think of all the dogs and people that would be saved from Belle’s wrath? I’m trying to think about this logically, is all.

Sure hope Belle doesn’t find that CBD…that I put right next to her food bowl…and wrapped in thick-cut, Boar’s Head bacon…

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Early favorite for “Best Commercial of 2019”

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Alshon Jeffery taunting Bears fans throughout that game the other night. I’m sorry Alshon, what the hell did we do besides root for you while you were here and then have NOTHING to do with you not being re-signed? I hope The Eagles cut you in the offseason and no other team signs you and you’re forced to become a dog walker to make ends meet and I hire you to walk Belle!!!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I don’t want to talk about it right now.

(Account currently at: I said I don’t want to talk about it.)

K bye.

My Farewell to Planet Fitness and Your Remote Control (8/2/18)

MY WORLD:

The past few weeks have included a lot of introspection for me. Quiet times and deep exhales and staring off into distances while silently wrapped up in my brain. What has caused this? God, I can’t believe I’m going to admit this, but this blog is nothing if it’s not honest; the cause of this introspection has been Planet Fitness. (I knew it.) When I was at a red light and an old woman wearing a cape was crossing the street, I was thinking “is she on her way to my Planet Fitness?” When in a dirty gas station bathroom while out on the road, I was thinking “does this Shell station outsource their bathroom cleaning jobs to Planet Fitness?” When dreaming about running into Anna Kendrick on a quiet street, working up the courage to ask her out and as she’s about to say “I’d love to” she spots the Planet Fitness tag on my keychain and starts vomitting violently while screaming “I NEVER TOOK YOU FOR ONE OF THEM!!!” Well Anna, your sweet baby Jimmy has some news for ya: I am no longer a Planet Fitness man. That’s right, I told the judgment free zone to kick rocks and maybe LEARN HOW TO USE A FUCKING MOP!

Between “the people” and “the smells” and “the facilities” and “the employees”, I feel like I’ve been withstanding a slow waterboarding at the hands of Planet Fitness since I joined. “ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE OKAY WORKING OUT NEXT TO A MAN WEARING JEANS AND A COWBOY HAT WHILE ON A PURPLE TREADMILL?!?!”-Said the Planet Fitness manager as he slowly dripped water into the towel covering my squirming face. For all of you out there who are thinking that $10 per month is too good of a deal to pass up, take heed: you get what you pay for, and 10 dollars gets you a gym that smells like a 2 day old Chipotle burrito bowl.

With Green Day’s “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” playing in the background, I’d like to take a trip down my Planet Fitness memory lane. I promise you, all of the following mini-stories, while maybe slightly exaggerated, are true.–TAKE IT, BILLIE JOE! “It’s something unpredictable, but in the end it’s right, I hope you had the time of your life.” (*I did not.)

SO TAKE THE PHOTOGRAPHS AND STILL FRAMES IN YOUR MIND

Now that I’ve escaped the purple hellscape that is Planet Fitness, there are certain images, still frames if you will, that come to mind when I think of my time there. Some of these include:

–The walls on the inside of the changing room: After a while, I realized that changing into my gym clothes in the locker room was a daily test of whether or not I suffer from claustrophobia. The locker room was small and overcrowded and dusty. However, this being a “judgement free zone”, I discovered that there were private changing rooms that nobody seemed to notice or use. I could go in there, change at my leisure and not accidentally brush up against 8 dudes who live a “showering is optional”-lifestyle. For a while, my private changing room time was nice and vital to my sanity in this gym. I’d escape the crush of the locker room, change in peace and prepare myself to power through the workout I was about to embark on. It was therapeutic, really. Then one day, I walked into MY private changing room, closed the door, and…”holy fucking shit, there are black hair shavings all over the white wall.” It was as if Planet Fitness had caught on to my changing room bliss and called a meeting to address the situation. “This fuggin’ guy is only paying $10 a month, we can’t let him enjoy the cleanly solitude of that changing room. Who has any ideas?” That’s when a close relative of Sasquatch himself, must have walked into the meeting room with an electric razor and a smirk. I’m not kidding, it looked like they shaved a gorilla and then came in with a fan to make sure all the shavings stuck to the white walls. So my private changing room time was ruined forever because all I could think of when I went in there after that was that there HAD to be little hairs still all over that place.

–The unfinished woodworking station that sat in the corner of the “stretching area”. Nothing says “take a deep breath!” than a pile of uncut wood and stacked cans of paint! Don’t believe me? Here’s a screenshot from an insta post I made about this corner months ago.

pfit

–The handicap bathroom stall door on the ground. For as big as this Planet Fitness is, they only one men’s room that had only 3 bathroom stalls. Now listen, public pooping isn’t fun for anyone, but it’s a necessary evil that all adults must come to terms with; ESPECIALLY, at the gym. When solo rooms with locks and one toilet don’t exist, then we have to rely on stalls and…lets be honest, we’re all hoping to sneak into the handicap stall when no one is looking. Yeah, that’s me slithering in and out of the handicap stall when I don’t hear any footsteps in my immediate surroundings. So, obviously, I would try to do this here as well. BUT, yet again, the Planet Fitness Fairies must have caught on to my sneaky sneaky plan because basically every week the door to the handicap stall was somehow broken and just left on the ground. Seriously, just laying on the ground. After about 4 straight days of seeing this door on the ground, I asked an employee if they were going to fix it and the employee said “yeah, like, I think we have the door on order.” Who knew Planet Fitness imported their bathroom stall doors from Egypt?!?!? Then, whenever it would arrive, via crawling camel from Egypt, the door would be up about 14 minutes before some neanderthal asshole would break it again and put it on the floor.

IT’S NOT A QUESTION BUT A LESSON LEARNED IN TIME

–When you walk into most gyms, the front desk people will grab your keycard, swipe and give you a “thank you!” or a hearty “have a good workout!” It’s nice. At Planet Fitness? You walk up to the front desk, hold up your keycard and are met with mouth-open, eye rolls from staff members eating pizza while reclining on computer chairs. After an awkward few seconds, one of these very hungry staff members will flay open their hand towards the scanner. This, in lazy person speak, translates to “scan your card yourself.” After a while, I knew that reactions like this were coming, but I’d still try to force my card towards them as my form of protest (when’s the march?) I DON’T WANT TO SCAN MY FUCKING CARD! YOU DO IT! Seriously, why are they there? They’re not cleaning the private changing rooms, fixing the handicap bathroom doors OR scanning membership cards. Are they actually getting paid to wear a purple sweatshirt and eat Little Caesar’s near a bunch of smelly people sweating?

–As the calendar turned to summer months, I started noticing that my Planet Fitness was doing its best surface of the sun impression. A box with a wall of windows facing west is an issue when those windows have no issues and, you know, THE SUN SETS IN THE WEST. This means that every day during sunset, also known as the most popular time in the day to go to the gym, this PFit was SCORCHING hot and you were staring at the sun while on your dumb purple fucking treadmill. Okay, they may not have shades, but they have AC, right Jimmy? THANK YOU FOR SEEKING CLARIFICATION! That’s what I thought because I saw thermostats and big AC looking units on their roof when I’d drive by. Then, one day I went for a normal run at a normal pace on one of those purple treadys. About two miles in I felt like I was sweating like Patrick Ewing in his prime (look that reference up. It’s funny, I swear.) Being the stubborn bitch that I am, I forced myself to finish the run; bypassing all of the warning signs of heat stroke along the way. Tough boys like me don’t have heat strokes so…I was in the clear. When I got off the treadmill, I checked the thermostat and it read 86. So I went to the front desk, asked for the GM and asked if there was an issue with the AC or if this is just how it is in Planet Fitness. His response? “Hmmm, I don’t know.” And that was it. He smiled like “I gave your question thought, gave you an answer, and I am now completely satisfied with how this interaction went.” As all of the muscles in my body tensed (so many muscles guys…so many!) I ran some mental math: hairy walls + broken bathrooms + rude employees + no air-conditioning = $10. Essentially, I was paying to be EXTRA miserable while working out. You know why most people at Planet Fitness aren’t in good shape? Because it’s already hard enough to go to a nice gym and force yourself through a workout. Imagine trying to get through a productive workout in your Uncle Larry’s “secret woodshed”.

That day, I decided that not only was I done at Planet Fitness, but that I was going to DEDICATE THE REST OF MY LIFE TO EDUCATING POTENTIAL CUSTOMERS OF THE HELLHOLE THEY ARE ABOUT TO SIGN UP FOR. If I can spare one young soul the horror of those purple fucking machines, my plight will have been worth it.

FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH, IT WAS WORTH ALL THE WHILE

It most certainly was not.

OUR WORLD:

Football is back and so is negotiating for television time with your wife. If you, like me, had kind of forgotten that football was right around the corner, you still have time to ensure that football is on your main television ALL SATURDAY AND ALL SUNDAY starting at the end of the month, when the real games begin. It will take sacrifice and strength and CHUCKLING AT THINGS YOU MAY NOT FIND FUNNY. Here are the steps fellas:

For the next 3 weeks, whenever you are home, give the remote to your wife and say “I don’t care what we watch.”
She will be caught off-guard and start suggesting shows. This is a test. Don’t say “yes” to every show. Instead, wait until about the 4th show she suggests and act SUPER EXCITED about that show (whether you are or not).
Project genuine interest in this show that she has picked for every episode you watch. Ask questions, laugh at her insights, point out plot holes. THIS MUST SEEM LEGIT GUYS! THERE’S NOT ENOUGH TIME TO PLAY AROUND!!!
In 3 weeks, when college and pro football start, grab the remote first thing Saturday morning to put on Gameday. When your spouse says something that The VP would say, like, “how long are we going to watch this?” You need to respond by gently reminding her that you have watched HER SHOW for the past 3 weeks. After like two weekends of 48 straight hours of football on television, she’ll give up and probably go to her friends or maybe cheat on you and end your relationship BUT AT LEAST YOU’LL GET TO SEE IF MITCH TRUBISKY HAS TURNED THE CORNER!!!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

FOOTBALL HYPE VIDEO SEASON!!!!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Dear Planet Fitness,

JIMMY GAMBLES

Am I betting on the Bears in the Hall of Fame game tonight? YOU BET YOUR ASS I AM!!!

k bye.

Single Jimmy at His Worst and NFL Draft Scouting Reports (4/26/18)

MY WORLD:

A couple days ago I wrote about “Single Jimmy” and posted a blurry picture of myself on Instagram. I would like to tell you the origin story of this picture.

I was working as a 21 year-old MANAGER! at an Italian-ish restaurant in a Northern suburb of Chicago. I had been there for about a year and a half; quickly climbing the mom-and-pop-restaurant ladder going from carry out to server to manager in the blink of an eye! To this day, many people still speak of how quick my ascension to MANAGEMENT was (they don’t? Are we sure? Well, how many people have you asked?) REGARDLESS! Throughout these two years, I would work full time and go to college full time by scheduling all of my classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On those days, classes would basically go from 9am to 10pm, which would allow me to work the other 5 days of the week at the restaurant.

–QUICK ASIDE, I’m going to call the restaurant “Casa’s House” because that’s an inside joke to the people that have worked there, but NOT the actual name of the restaurant (this Jimmy’s a real huckster, if you ask me.)—

I tell you about this schedule not to brag about my work ethic (even though you MUST be impressed) OR make you feel bad for me, but to illustrate that my ENTIRE social life was also wrapped up in this restaurant. And that was a great thing! It was the first place I felt part of a solid group of friends and it helped me regain some of the confidence that was lost during the “No really, I like eating lunch alone in the library!”-high school years. By the time I became MANAGER! at “Casa’s House” I had even dated a waitress (a relationship that didn’t work out for some reason that I’m sure had nothing to do with my claims that her therapist was “out to get me.”) With confidence now above negative 3 trillion (the High School low water mark), I had developed a crush on another co-worker, lets call her “Larry” so when the VP of Ops asks me about this story, I’ll laugh when she gets jealously scoffs “Who was this LARRY girl?!?!”. LARRY was younger and better looking and more popular than me, BUT I tricked myself into thinking I had a chance with her because I was now a MANAGER! (Did I mention I was a manager?)

As anyone who has worked in restaurants knows, the best time to make a move on a work-crush is at a company get-together because it’s WAY TOO SCARY to just ask them out on a date. So I spent the first few months of Larry’s employment trying to organize group outings after every shift we worked together. “Guys, we are SO OVERDUE for a Tuesday-hang!”-would be something I said around this time. Then, I’d turn to Larry and be like “Oh Larry, I forgot you were even working tonight. Would you like to join us? Not like I care or anything, but like, ya know, whatever.” (You could say, I knew how to play hard to get.) Most of these NOT-OBVIOUS-AT-ALL attempts to hang with Larry ended with me going to a local dive bar with everyone but Larry, but there were a few times she’d come by and we’d flirt. She was about to start college, so I could kinda’ play the cooler older guy role until she spoke to ANYONE who knew me in high school. The idea was to impress her enough during the summer months that we’d become bf/gf and fall in love and everyone would be impressed AND WE’D BE TOGETHER FOREVER!

Unfortunately, Larry began to lose interest in Tuesday night bar hangs as the summer dragged on, before leaving for college in the fall. My plan of impressing her by drinking SoCo and Limes while making restaurant jokes did not work probably because she was a HUMORLESS HEARTLESS WITCH! Either way, I sulked my way through the fall, but I was plotting for ONE LAST DITCH EFFORT to woo Larry…when she returned home for winter break at the restaurant’s Holiday Party.

The owner’s of “Casa’s House” were/are/will-probably-always-be generous enough to throw their weirdo/borderline-alcoholic staff a really nice holiday party. This year, they were taking us to a place called “Whirlyball” in Chicago: think bumper cars meets basketball meets lacrosse. The activity itself is fun and they were also paying for an open bar. That, my friends, is called DOUBLE FUN! Plus, oh and this was my fave part, they invited Larry without me even asking them to.

So we got there and I figured that because I was a MANAGER! and 21 years old, that beginning the night with a Long-Island Iced Tea was a GREAT IDEA! Nothing like carpet-bombing your nerves with 7 different liquors in a tall glass before trying to flirt with your crush (this NEVER backfires). After a few rounds of whirlyball, where you get to drive a bumper car drunk while yelling at your teammates to “hit the net thing!”, Jimmy Good Times (‘member JGT?) was feeling LOOSE! Larry was being flirty with me which was fun, and I was discovering that when the first Long Island goes down smooth, the next two go down EVEN SMOOTHER!

Feeling like French Toasty, the cool-kid group decided to go out front to smoke a cigarette because that’s what cool young adults do (consequences are for SUCKERS!) While outside looking extra bad boy with cig in mouth, I decided that now was the time to THOROUGHLY IMPRESS Larry with a little something I like to call my brute strength and power. And how else do you do that besides picking people up, throwing them over your shoulder and spinning around in the Whirlyball parking lot? To borrow a phrase from my friend “Cash Out”, I’ve looked at it from all angles, and there was no other way to show off my strength.

The thing was, it was going well! I picked up a couple guys and girls and everyone was laughing but also probably like “Damn, I didn’t know Jimmy was so powerful.” Which was really amazing because I wore tight t-shirts all the time. HOW COULD THEY NOT KNOW?!?! (What an unbelievable douchebag I was). After picking up and spinning with just about everyone, it was the moment of truth: time to pick up Larry. In my hazy memory, I think she was actually kinda excited. Everyone else seemed to enjoy it and, while I was in meathead-mode, it’s not like I was FORCING people to take these rides on my shoulders.

Unfortunately, after throwing Larry over my shoulder and beginning the spin part of the ride, JGT was overwhelmed with the dizzies. Could there have been worse timing? NO TIMES A MILLION TRILLION! So I fell down. Although, when I say fall, you know I mean “crashed into the cement wall of the building while kinda-tossing Larry into a parked car,” right? *Cue the theme song from “Gladiator”–ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!?!

Aside from a bump on her head, Larry was fine. I, on the other hand, needed to have another co-worker bandage my torn ear up while I laughed and profusely apologized and wanted to crawl into the sewer where people like Jimmy Meathead belong. Larry assured me everything was okay and she was fine, but the image of a powerful, restaurant manager, I was going for had been shattered.

In an attempt to prove to everyone that I WAS FINE! EVERYTHING IS FINE! I went back into the Whirlyball bar and ordered tequila shots for myself, my good server friend and the owner of “Casa’s House”. The owner was a big tequila guy, so what, was I NOT supposed to order shots for him and I? That woulda’ been crazy. So we took back to back tequila shots together because that’s what managers trying to impress owners do. (You’re not a manager? Oh, then you just wouldn’t know.)

Larry was back inside and laughing and I was making fun of myself and everyone was back to having a good time. Then, as one does, I had to take a little break for a tinkle…And the next thing I know, I was eye-to-eye with the base of a toilet bowl:

Whirly

My good dear sweet friend Kyle took this picture and stayed with me as I inspected the base of the toilet with my eyes closed and drool coming out of my mouth (that’s how plumbers do it, guys.) Eventually, I was taken out of Whirlyball by my friends like the dead guy in “Weekend At Bernie’s”. *If you look close, you can see my bandaged up ear. Isn’t that fun!?!?!

2 days later, the next time I saw Larry at work, I gave her a gift card I bought for a super expensive spa in the city and apologized profusely for maybe 48 straight minutes. We never ended up dating. The VP of Ops is so lucky.

OUR WORLD:

The NFL Draft is tonight and it’s one of my favorite days of the year. Here are some quick Jimmy scouting reports on guys the Bears may take:

Roquan Smith: Killer linebacker from Georgia who I know is good because I saw him play in 3 games and he made some big tackles. Also, he was originally committed to go to UCLA, which means he’s basically a Bruin and we were basically classmates and so he’s going to be good.

Final Grade: I want.

Quenton Nelson: Big fat guy who plays a boring position for a school that I HATE. Was he good? Who cares. All guards do is block and if you pay attention to blocking while watching football YOU ARE LYING THAT YOU DO THAT! All the draft people say he’s “can’t miss”, but drafting a big ugly is the quickest way for your team to ruin the excitement of draft night.

Final Grade: I don’t want.

Minkah Fitzpatrick: DB from Alabama so he’s probably good because Nick Saban only recruits studs and then is mean to them so they’re “well coached” by the time they reach the league. I do keep hearing that he doesn’t really have a position, corner or safety, and since I don’t remember him when I watched Alabama last year; THAT’S A PROBLEM! The Bears already have one Alabama safety. That’s enough.

Final Grade: I don’t really want but I don’t totally not want.

Denzel Ward: Fast, little corner from Ohio State. I know nothing about him, but fast little corners sound fun! I’ve heard draft experts describe him as “twitchy” like it’s a good thing. Hope he doesn’t have tourettes and get in trouble for saying bad words in front of his coaches!

Final Grade: I kinda want.

Calvin Ridley: Receiver who caught the game-winning touchdown in Alabama’s National Championship game. This guy was talked about throughout the year as the best receiver in the country and I saw him play well in two games so…HE’S A STUD! Also, receivers are fun to root for and we need a new young one to help us get past the sting of Kevin White flaming out (although…I haven’t totally given up on him…)

Final Grade: I want.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Endless highlights with this guy…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When your team takes an offensive lineman in the first round and if the Bears do it tonight I’M GONNA BE FURIOUS!

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 went 3 for 5 last night because I threw in the Bruins on the moneyline too. That’s a net positive, folks. Tonight? Not gambling. Too busy watching the NFL Draft. Wait! Can you gamble on the draft? I’ll report back tomorrow.

(My account currently at $188.20)

K bye.