HOT CHICAGO RESTAURANT REVIEW #1

OUR WORLD:

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

Au Cheval:

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.

How I Actually Hurt My Ankle & “The Bachelorette” Finally Ended!

MY WORLD:

Do you remember when you were younger and the rough-housing you were doing with your siblings or friends came to an abrupt end when one of you got ACTUALLY hurt? No one questioned how you got hurt because you were always surrounded by people who saw you smash your face into a hammock pole while running a post route in your friend’s front yard. One second you’re all laughing, the next, you’re flat on your back with a panicked look, while saying “help, help, help, help.” Reminiscing about those “help, help, help, help” moments is hysterical, until you find yourself on your back again. Only this time, it’s in a Chicago alley at 11:30 PM and you’re saying those words to your dog; who’s more interested in that bag under the dumpster next to you. As I have come to find out since late Saturday night, when I took my numbah one pretty gurl for what should have been a nondescript walk, the difference between childhood and adulthood injuries is stark; childhood injuries are funny, adulthood injuries are suspicious.

I took Belle for a walk on Saturday night, stepped in a pothole in the middle of an alley we were walking down, and destroyed my ankle. That’s it! That’s the story! (I’ve never trusted these “pothole” stories). I crumpled to the ground, not knowing exactly what happened, aside from the fact that my right ankle felt like it exploded, and laid on my back trying not to cry. (If anyone has video of this, I’m sure it would go viral. “ManBaby almost cries alone on back in alley.”) Belle was sweet and kinda sniffed my face while also being like “dang that sucks ’bout yo leg, but lemme check out what’s under this dumpster!” I get it, dumpster searches and barking at minorities are Belle’s top priorities.

After hobbling up to my apartment, three flights of stairs that felt like ten billion flights of nail-crusted stairs, I told The VP that my ankle was dead. DEAD. DONEZO. FINISHED! She helped lay me down on our stupid, shitty couch that we took from our friend’s trash pile 2 years ago (not a joke) and got me long socks to wrap my grapefruit of an ankle with. Why socks? BECAUSE WE’RE THE ONLY ADULTS IN THE WORLD WHO DIDN’T HAVE A GODDAMN ACE BANDAGE IN THEIR HOUSE. Anyway, with my ankle wrapped in my V fashionable Nike knee socks, I started contemplating what the next few days were going to entail: constant leg pain, an obnoxious trip to a nearby x-ray room, and, most importantly, having to convince everyone that this wasn’t a “Jimmy was hammered drunk and did this”-incident. I could already hear the people in my head responding to the pothole story with “yeah, but what really happened?” I STEPPED IN A POTHOLE. THAT’S IT! (Pretty defensive IMVHO)

Now, I won’t lie, was I totally, completely sober? No, I was not. GOD FOR-FUCKING-BID I ENJOY AN OFF-DAY WITH A FEW ADULT BEVERAGES!!! I was a few beers deep when I took Belle on this fateful walk, but it’s not like I was challenging people to race me down a fire escape after my 14th shot of “whatever’s cheapest”-Tequila. First off, I don’t even really like tequila, so that’s hole number one in your “you had to be smashed argument”. (I do like margaritas, but we’re talking shot-wise here, folks. STAY FOCUSED!) Second! Wouldn’t you think I could come up with a cooler sounding story than “I stepped in a pothole” if I was actually trying to hide the fact that it was a drunken escapade gone wrong? I’m a writer (amateur) for chrissake! But still, the first two friends I texted about my injury replied with, essentially, the same responses: “how drunk were you?” There wasn’t a “oh, that sucks, I’m sorry,” or “ouch!” or “let me know if I can help while you’re UNABLE TO WALK AND PERFORM BASIC HUMAN FUNCTIONS.” NOPE! JUST BLATANT DISTRUST OF THE BACKGROUND SURROUNDING MY INJURY. BLATANT. DISTRUST.

Therfore, since it has become apparent that my “friends” will not believe the “ACTUAL STORY” regardless, I would like to put forth another scenario in which my ankle may have gotten injured…I will leave it up to the reader to decide how my ankle actually became the size of a grapefruit:

The Second Dunk Attempt Story:

So The VP and I were walking back home following a lovely meal we had just enjoyed at a local Italian eatery. Naturally, I had a salad and water because I don’t eat food for enjoyment, I simply eat for sustenance. You don’t put unleaded into a diesel engine, nah’mean? During our stroll, we encountered some local ruffians whistling and hooting and hollering at my lovely wife. Being the secure, masculine man that I am, I simply smiled and waved, as if to say “thank you, I agree.” Unfortunately, however, a member of said ruffian group, named Burt, misinterpreted my gratitude and decided to confront me.

“Think you’re better than me?” Asked the menacing Burt.

“Sir, what is your name? I would like to address you properly,” I responded as The VP attempted to pull me and my huge torso muscles in the opposite direction.

“My name is Burt,” he said–which is when I knew “this guy’s name is Burt.”

“Hi Burt, my name is Jimmy, I’m not sure if I’m better than you. However, I certainly was not meaning to imply that with my wave and toothy, picturesque smile. To be honest, I might be better than you at some things, but worse than you at others. If we spend the time tallying up everything, well, Burt, that would take days.”

“I’m talking about that,” Burt said as he pointed to the nearby basketball court.

Following some negotiation, Burt and I decided that we would decide who was better at dunking a basketball. The VP, never having seen me dunk before because I’m humble and don’t like to show off, pleaded with me to “just let it go.” But I couldn’t let it go; not with my wife’s honor at stake. So I tied my casual, yet fashionable Levi’s loafers extra tight and followed Burt to the basketball court.

Using the manners that my parents taught me when I was a young boy, I allowed Burt to go first. Burt grabbed the ball from one of his ruffian friends, pounded it twice on the ground to show that he was strong and ran towards to hoop. As he took off, he put the ball in his right hand and began a tomahawk-like motion as he neared the rim. His legs splaying through the air, he whipped the ball forward and…right into the front of the rim. Failure washed over Burt’s face as he landed. He missed his dunk and, even worse, pulled away from me when I tried to console him.

Now it was my turn. Unfortunately for you, the reader, I don’t want to get into too many details regarding my dunk because I’m so humble, but let’s just say it was a 360 windmill between the legs that left the ruffians stunned and my wife so proud that she immediately called her Mom to revel in what an amazing athlete she had married. But I don’t want to get into it further than that.

“Beginners luck!” Burt snarled as he whipped the basketball into my chest. “Do it again, or I won’t admit that you’re better than me at dunking!”

Not wanting to highlight Burt’s lack of intelligence by dispelling the faulty notion of “beginner’s luck,” I obliged his infantile request. However this time, while gliding through the air like a Peregrine Falcon approaching his unsuspecting prey, I noticed Burt sticking his leg under the basket, directly where my right foot would land post-awe-inspiring-dunk numero dos. Thankfully, my eye-body coordination is so stunningly fast, that I was able to adjust my landing immediately after throwing down yet another rim-rattling 360 windmill between the legs dunk.

Once landed, with my right foot narrowly missing Burt’s maliciously placed leg, I didn’t say anything to his now despondent-looking face. Instead, I simply winked at him and then blew a kiss to my adoring wife. That’s when Burt took the handgun out from his waistband and pistol-whipped my right ankle.

And that’s how my ankle got hurt.

OUR WORLD:

Last night, this season of “The Bachelorette” came to a merciful end after a 3 hour show that included about 6 minutes of interesting television: when Blake almost had a heat stroke while getting dumped, and when Garrett tried to explain that Instagram’s “Like” feature is too complicated for him to grasp. We can all agree that this season sucked because Becca has the personality of a plastic spork, and the only guy with charisma, Jordan, was probably a paid actor. So we move on and hope that next season they make Chad “The Bachelor”. But there is one thing that stuck with me throughout last night’s episode, that I just can’t shake…Chris Harrison SUCKS.

How is it that someone with no discernible talent becomes the face of the most popular television franchise on ABC? I understand the need to cast a “straight man” opposite some outlandish character in a buddy comedy, but why cast one to host an ultimately, mean-spirited reality dating show? When Blake came out last night and everyone was watching how sad he was about getting dumped in front of a gajillion people, Chris could’ve cut the tension with a little joke, or asked an insightful question about where he goes from here, or….ANYTHING OTHER THAN ASK “HOW DOES WATCHING THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?” That’s the question that people without functioning brains are wondering. “Hey Blake, when you watch that time you got kicked in the nuts while wearing a suit in 120 degree heat, does that make you feel good?”

Remember too, that this episode is Chris Harrison’s chance to shine. It’s the Super Bowl of his season where he is one of the main characters in the show and he comes to the table with the “how did that make you feel?”-question?!?! An ABC executive should have come out on stage at that very moment and stapled an oversized dunce cap to his dumb head while informing him that he has been sentenced to life in prison for “being a horribly stupid dating show host.” NO POSSIBILITY FOR PAROLE!

Quickly, here are my top 5 suggestions for people to replace Chris Harrison:

Dave Chappelle
Amy Schumer
Dr. Phil
O.J. Simpson
Barack Obama

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My Mom posted a video about this dog on Facebook a few days ago and he’s now my second (maybe even first) favorite dog in the world.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Chris Harrison.

JIMMY GAMBLES…

I’M AT $0 AFTER THE CUBS WON BY 2 LAST NIGHT EVEN THOUGH I BET THEM TO WIN BY 3-4. COOL GUYS!

K bye.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at $31.44)

K bye.

Rules When Sitting Alone At The Bar and Jimmy Fashion (6/8/18)

OUR WORLD:

Since sitting alone in bars is part of my job (professional Sad?) I’ve developed proven methods to give off “no, it’s okay, I’m not a sad person”-vibes. It’s tricky, really, toeing the line between self-assured, creepy and sad while sitting alone at a bar, but when done properly, can make you feel like one of the cool movie guys who make you want to get into cigarettes again. (Then you’ll probably go overboard and try rolling the pack in your short sleeve like James Dean until you catch your profile in a mirror and realize that your jawline is NOT chiseled.) I’m planning for “The Rules of Being Alone At A Bar” to be recurring posts. Let’s try these out first:

NEVER SIT DIRECTLY NEXT TO SOMEONE WHEN THERE ARE OTHER SPOTS OPEN: What’s worse than sitting at a bar with a bunch of open seats, and some chode picks the seat right next to you? Everyone knows that there should be one seat in between each party at the bar and if I owned a bar, I would actually mandate this by allowing my customers to place sharp metal spikes on the seats flanking their party at the bar. Would there be some bloody butts? If it keeps the creeps fromma’ creepin’, then it’s well worth it. Girls, wouldn’t you be much more likely to go to the Spikey Seat bar than risk having Hairy Jerry and his double vodkas sitting next to you and your friends on a Friday night?

If you are reading this and thinking “I like to sit next to strangers at the bar because I’m open to meeting new people!” just stop fibbing yourself. The whole “meeting new people”-catchphrase was started by some hippy who wrote a book or something that confused affability with harassment. What, you can’t talk to someone if your love-handle isn’t resting on their thigh? (Side note: ever look at people seating at the bar from behind? NOBODY looks good. It’s like a row of ziplock bags stuffed full of melting gelato with heads on top. Oh, and the heads? Most have bald spots.)

MAKE FRIENDS WITH THE BARTENDER WITHOUT A FULL-BLOWN CONVERSATION: Not every bartender is an amateur psychiatrist thrilled to diagnose all the problems you’re dumping on their doorstep. Remember especially if they’re over the age of 35, they’re doing a job that requires an explanation of “what went wrong” every time they speak to their grandfather. When I bartended, I did not whistle while I worked. Instead, I felt trapped between sads and their unprescribed medicines; I got to play the unlicensed doctor setting my patients up for a blip of relief before waking up with a stinging headache. (I just don’t understand why Jimmy wasn’t a good bartender?!?!) I was cordial with the alone-people at the bar, but I was overly cautious with them due to the fear of getting caught by a talkative one. Ever wonder why the bartender acts super busy in a slow bar? He’s probably trying to avoid getting cornered by an alone-person sitting at his bar. It must be a BILLION-TRILLION-GAJILLION times worse for female bartenders. Give ’em all purple hearts and lifetime passes to every panic room ever constructed.

As an alone-person at the bar, simply play hard to get with the bartender. You want to make friends with him because maybe he’ll give you a free drink and most bartenders have cool stories. So order your bev, thank him or her without really looking at them, and go back to watching the television. Play it cool, guys. Keep an eye on what’s going on around the bar and, after a while, you’ll pick up on some of the politics surrounding your seat. Maybe you’ll see a pouty server or a bitchy customer or an angry boss. Once you spot this, wait for the bartender to come near you and flip a “I’m with you, brother”-comment the bartender’s way. For instance, lets say you see a customer send back a drink more than once. When the bartender nears you, say something like “they seem like fun.” BOOM, you’re on the bartender’s side. All most bartenders want to do is complain about their job, so once you open that possibility for them, they’re puddy in your hand. And guess what? Alone-you has just made friends with the most popular person in the place. Congratulations.

DON’T TALK TO THE TELEVISIONS: You’re not fooling anyone. The entire bar knows that your running commentary on the muted news program is a signal: YOU’RE DYING FOR SOMEONE TO REACT TO YOU! I’m not talking about the meatballs who yell at their teams during important sports games (how else would the players know they were fucking up?) No, I’m talking about the nights at the bar where there aren’t sports on, but they left the TVs on, like, the news. There’s no sound, but a picture of Trump will come on the screen and the alone-guy DYING FOR A REACTION will blurt out something like “You believe this guy?” First off, no, I can’t fucking believe that guy. But more importantly, I don’t want to be goaded into a political conversation with the alone-guy stranger at the bar. Nobody does EXCEPT for maybe some of the other alone-guys at the bar. This creates an absolute nightmare scenario where alone-guys are shouting conversation to each other from across the bar. If you find yourself in one of these shouted convos, stop it right now. You don’t want to be one of these people for even ONE SECOND of your life.

Now what if you hear one of these alone-people barking at the TV, but you didn’t know that was the situation? You turned to your left and, all of a sudden, you’re making direct eye-contact with said alone-person right as they’re reaching the climax of their political monologue. “Shit, alone-guy is gonna take this as a sign I want to engage in this” is what every sane person immediately thinks. And guess what? Alone-guy DOES take that eye-contact as a sign that you’re in. As you see television talker alone-guy misread your accidental eye-contact, he’ll shift slightly towards you covered in “let’s have a chat”-body language. Before he completely turns in his chair, you need to get up and go to the bathroom. That’s your only way out; straight bail move. Act like you really need to go and you turning that way was just part of your exit-move. Hop off your barstool and do a trot-waddle to the bathroom to really drive home the point. We don’t want to make the alone-guys sad, but it’s every man and woman for themselves whenever the television talker starts acting up.

MY WORLD:

I’m in the midst of a sock crisis, and I’m close to just throwing in the towel. The VP and I have gotten caught WAY behind with our laundry, so we’ve been employing the “lets rummage through the over-stuffed dryer every morning for our outfit”-plan of attack. Unfortunately, the fruits of these dryer searches are limited to shirts only. At this point, finding matching socks is about as likely as The VP becoming an ultra-marathoner (I think I’ve seen her run once…in an Ikea parking lot when she thought for a second she was gonna get hit by a car.) Now, a normal, responsible adult would gather all the hamper socks and devote however long it takes to match socks. Lest you forget, I am special and have chosen an alternative solution: embracing mismatched socks as “my new look”. I, Jimmyschair, hereby announce that I am no longer a sheep in the matched sock flock. Remember, fortune favors the bold.

socks

For those of you who thought Jimmy Fashion was dead: catch me on my yacht.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Dave Matthews Band came out with a new album and I think this is my favorite song on it. I THINK!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Rainy Fridays in the summer.

WRITING ABOUT GAMBLING ON THE NBA FINALS IS BORING ME SO I’M GOING TO TAKE A BREAK FROM IT FOR A LITTLE BIT. PLEASE DON’T CRY LIKE “BACHELORETTE” LINCOLN ABOUT THIS.

But real quick, I’m putting the balance of my Bovada account on the Warriors tonight.

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.

Guy Fieri Fandom and Tales of Laziness (4/5/2018)

OUR WORLD:

I want to be friends with Guy Fieri. He’s Queen meets Limp Bizkit meets the best cheeseburger you had when you were 13. His bleached blonde spikes and thin goatee WORK, and if you don’t smirk while nodding your head whenever he talks about a dish being “out of bounds”, then maybe you’re the reason you and your father haven’t spoken in years. I would like to formally welcome you to jimmyschair Reality TV Show Hall of Fame Introduction for Guy Fieri’s “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives”.

It’s really fun to fall in love with someone who is easily made fun of, but has enough self-confidence to turn the joke around; like putting the sun in front of a mirror. How can a guy wearing pant-shorts, sunglasses with flames on the sides and gaudy bracelets make an old lady in a Nebraska diner blush? My favorite grandmother (we all have one, right?) would have been play-dough in Guy’s hand. I can almost hear her denying that she thought he was cute…when she TOTALLY did. What hipster can do that? I’ll wait…(I’m seriously trying to think of a counterpoint, and all I’ve got is Jeff Goldblum? Maybe? Nah.) No hipster can do that because Guy is the good-times party boy we all secretly want to be friends with.

Not everything is as ironic as we’d like to make it out to be in hindsight. Sometimes, a greasy cheeseburger at a place with torn booths just tastes fucking good. Much the way that sometimes a bowling shirt featuring bedazzled skulls is just fucking badass. Ignoring the cool-kid crowd and talking about the unimpressive things we love is what this show is about, and Guy is the embodiment of an unimpressive thing we love. What’s revolutionary about some dude in a muscle car throwing up the “rock on” sign? NOTHING! But you like it because how do you hate a guy who just wants to show you a ROCKIN’ good time?

How much do you love trying to decipher Guy’s facial expressions? Like, he’s never going to come out and said to a chef “Bro, that sandwich sucked!” But, when he doesn’t shoot the camera one of those “you cannot be serious with how good this is”-stares, you know he kinda’ doesn’t like it that much. He’s too nice of a dude to spit something out, so he’ll normally kinda nod his head while darting his eyes in a panic of trying to invent something nice to say about the shitty bite in his mouth. Normally, he’ll bail and go with the all-too-obvious “that’s very interesting” copout. (In Guy-talk, “that’s very interesting” means that you should shut your dump down because that bite was GARB!)

On the other hand, when he REALLY likes a bite, he is so expressive that you feel like you’re getting to enjoy it through your TV. This face, the “you cannot be serious how good this is”-stare, is what makes the show:

guy fieri

Full disclosure, I have absolutely stolen this face in my life. Whenever I take a bite of something awesome, I make this face now. Restaurant owners should keep an eye on their customers, and if they’re not seeing any of these faces being made, then maybe it’s time to find a new chef.

How excited do you get when you see him take a bite and drop this face, though? MOM! HE REALLY LIKES THIS PLACE THAT WE’VE NEVER BEEN TO AND PROBABLY NEVER WILL GO TO BUT IF WE DO WE’RE PROBABLY GONNA LIKE IT CUZ HE MADE THE FACE! If you run a restaurant that Guy has been to and made this face in, you need to immediately change the name of your place to “Guy Made This Face Here” with that picture next to it. Tell me you’re driving past that restaurant without stopping and I’ll tell you that you’re a goddamn stupid idiot who makes poor decisions in every aspect of your goddamn stupid idiot life! DAMNIT!

I bet he does cocaine too and, earmuffs kids, but that makes me think he’s even cooler. Like, you know those episodes when he’s really vibing with the chef? They’re fist-bumping, and throwing food puns back and forth, and Guy keeps slapping him on the back and saying how everything is “out of bounds”? You know that when the film crew takes five, Guy is nudging that chef to look down at his open palm featuring a tiny bag of white. Guy’s producers know what’s about to happen, but they pretend like they don’t see Guy direct his new best friend to the bathroom. Cut to 3 minutes later and all EVERYONE in the entire restaurant can hear is Guy and the chef alternating between giggling, snorting and high-fiving. The best part has to be when they emerge from the bathroom, a little too close to one another, sniffling and asking everyone around them “What?!”

After he parties with the chef in back, comes the part of the show where Guy turns into a journalist and interviews actual customers. ALL of the customers say pretty much the same thing “it’s just so fresh!” but it’s okay because it allows you to focus on your fantasy about what a Guy Fieri cologne would smell like. There’s always some foodie trying too hard to sound like an impressed critic, and you can feel Guy having to restrain himself from stuffing him in a locker. Then there’s the fat dude at the bar that Guy is super excited to watch eat and exchange face-stuffing tips with. Hey! He loves all shapes except skinny and that makes me feel great about myself! Take notice: they never show a super hot customer in these restaurants. It’s only the Betty-Ann’s and Larry’s of the world. Guts and bad haircuts.

By the time “Triple D” is over you have no idea what you just watched, but you’re super hungry and contemplating whether you could pull off flame sunglasses (not as a joke!) “Triple D” is a half-hour of Guy getting to be himself; takin’ big boy bites, throwin’ bones with his bros, not being snarky, and doing cocaine with new friends in rooms without cameras. There are no bad-guys in Guy’s world, just people he hasn’t met yet.

Loyal readers, please welcome the second show to the jimmyschair Reality TV Show Hall of Fame: “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives”.

MY WORLD:

I caught myself doing something extraordinarily lazy last night, and it got me thinking about the little lazy “cheat-codes” that I employ on a regular basis. Here’s what I’ve got:

-Leaving the fork I just used for my dinner on top of the leftovers I put in the fridge. This is the move I did last night. It’s an effort to put off washing said fork, but how ridiculous is that move when you have a dishwasher in your place?!?! I have a dishwasher in my place! Not only that, but we also have like a gajillion forks between all the silverware we got for wedding gifts (how about just a lifetime supply of plasticware next time?) But I still persist in trying to save myself the 3.6 seconds it would take for me to open the dishwasher, and put the dirty fork in the silverware compartment.

-Not throwing out socks or underwear with holes in them. No joke, over 30% of the underwear and socks I own, have a hole in them. I remember Jerry Seinfeld talking about how men don’t throw out underwear until they completely disintegrate and HE WAS ABSOLUTELY RIGHT! Why? Because if I throw them out, then that means I’ll have to DO SOMETHING…as in, I’ll have to go shopping for underwear and socks. Could you think of anything more boring than that? I actually did go underwear shopping at Target (the place you can’t not spend $100) a few weeks back. But I went alone, and just stared at the 97 different brands of underwear hoping that The VP would magically show up to tell me what to buy. It’s a minor miracle I didn’t just end up buying a hammer and calling it a day.

-Wearing the same pants for months at a time. I legitimately don’t know how often, if ever, I’m supposed to wash my jeans. I used to do it like once every two weeks when I’d do laundry, but then a friend told me that you’re not supposed to wash your jeans. (Ever get so happy over a seemingly-innocuous comment that you get kinda flush? That was me when I heard this. I needed a tissue.) Top 5 adult revelations definitely includes the time my friend told me you’re not supposed to wash your jeans. That means, I’m not being lazy, I’m just preserving the integrity of my denim. SCORE! Right?

-Turning my driver’s side car-door storage compartment into a garbage can that only gets emptied when I open my door on a windy day. Do I need to explain that? If you smash wrappers on top of wrappers, you can fit at least 10 thousand in that compartment.

-Leaving junk mail in my mailbox instead of taking it upstairs and throwing it in the garbage. I repeat this routine until that day I open my mailbox and the letters are so smashed that they’re getting stuck in the neighboring box. I’ll get annoyed in my head with the mailman, like “hey dude, take a hint, I’m not taking the loan-consolidation letters upstairs.” Don’t tell me that you’ve never opened your mailbox, looked through a bunch of lame credit card offers and bills you have on autopay, and then just closed your mailbox hoping those would…just go away on their own.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Even the spoof-version of Guy is a dude I wanna be friends with.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

This is Jeff “The Sandwich King” Mauro. Another Food Network star who doesn’t belong on the same planet as Guy Fieri. This dude makes me angry with how big of a DOOF he is. Go away forever and never come back.

Mauro

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:

Well, the Celtics got pounded so I’m going to need to make another fucking deposit. Here’s the thing: I was feeling really sorry for myself watching that Celtics debacle. BUT! If I had won that, then I definitely wouldn’t have won any of my Masters bets because the gambling gods would’ve been like “well, you just won.” Now, since I’ve been a massive LOSER since football season ended, the gambling gods have got to be thinking about rewarding my patience. Hey, Gambling Gods, time to throw me a frickin’ bone here. My Masters picks (for now): Tiger Woods, Justin Rose, Alex Noren, Thomas Pieters, Charl Schwartzel.

(My account currently at $1.02)

K bye.