If you slip on the ice and no one is around to see you fall is it okay to cry?

Hey, Shackleton, are you going out to run a few errands or are you on a fucking Arctic expedition? Seriously, I know it's a bit chilly outside but the circumference of your North Face Sub-Zero Thermashield Parka is making it a bit uncomfortable for the rest of us on this bus. It's only 41 degrees outside for chrissakes. That avalance that you are expecting to engulf you outside of Walgreen's ... well it ain't gonna happen. So do us a favor and shed a layer after you wedge your fat ass out of that seat. Oh and be sure to pick up that baby in a stroller you sideswiped on the way in too.

Love,

Jonesy

Okay, I get it! I'm too old to be trick or treating. Will you please remove the handcuffs?

Look, I'm no lawyer but I'm quite certain there is no statute barring a 29 year old male from trick or treating. I work my ass off for 40 hours a week and I pay my taxes at least 70% of the time ... so why the hell can't I knock on your door in search of some free shit?

I waited my turn. I let the little fairy princess and the little football get first crack at your loot. I was a gentleman as long as I could. So, yeah maybe I shoved the little green alien kid down those flight of stairs that one time. But he was asking for it! I mean, come on Macauley but for chrissakes we don't need to hear about your entire evening. Take your Three Musketeers and get the fuck out of the way. Some of us are starving here!

Oh, and as for YOU, Miss Neighborhood Association President Suburban Driving Mom ... I don't need to hear shit from you either. To answer your question, "No, I don't have anything better to do on a night like tonight". Excuse the hell out of me for having a craving for nougat, you Nazi cow!

Officer, I can explain. There are alot of bad people out there. I figure I am doing society a favor by dressing up in this clown outfit and roaming the streets going door to door. That way I am able to scope out some of those nuts out there who might be out to do harm. And no I have never heard of John Wayne Gacy, Jr. Why do you keep asking me that? I have no idea how that is even relevant.

So, please take this cuffs off. And I will go home quietly. I promise.

Snort of Lick-M-Ade for the road?

Open Letter #10

Dear Radio DJ In Small-To-Medium Sized Markets,

You gotta stop playing this Hinder shit.

My esteemed colleague, Wayne Graham, once posed an excellent question: "Who the fuck is buying all this Nickelback??". I would like to extend on that and pose this question: "Are you the one giving this Hinder band a false sense of accomplishment?"

I'm not a music snob. If anything, I am ANTI music snob. Who the hell is someone to tell ME what is cool and what is not. Listen to whatever you want, whenever you want. If you enjoy...then blare it from your Camaro with pride.

But this shit really sucks.

So, Mr. DJ, do me a favor and do your job as a shepherd to his flock. Play decent music and allow decent bands a chance to shine. There are lots of hard-working talented kids out there play their hearts out. Don't deprive them the chance to be heard because you have to play some cliche-raping ballad from a bunch of former Oklahoma City Arby's employees.

Sincerely,

Jonesy

Does your barber fence stolen property on the side? ... Mine does

Apparently, my barber is into fencing stolen property. I kinda
noticed that alot of "transients" stop by his shop while I'm getting
my hair cut. They usually just stroll in and have a seat and chat
with him while he cuts hair. Every now and then I notice he'll walk
over to them and see what they have in their bags. I think nothing of
it. But today I figured it all out when this one guy walks in and
starts asking if anyone wants to buy a gold watch. My barber shows me
the watch and asks if I'm interested. He then goes on to tell me
about all the shit he's purchased off these guys. I couldn't stop
laughing. Fantastic Sam's ... this place AIN'T.

Why are people still doing the Electric Slide?

Why are people still doing the Electric Slide?
Current mood: embarrassed

Seriously. You might as well stamp "I can't dance to save my life" on your forehead. This dance must really be put to rest, people. For the good of our country. For the good of all mankind.

It's the universal retard dance. Black people do it at weddings. White people do it at honky tonks. Teenagers are doing it at Junior Cotillion.

It even has it's own page on Wikipedia.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Electric_slide

That means some poor sap sat down at his computer and CHOSE to put forth the information to others! And even bothered to check his facts!!! Aaaaaaaaargh.

There is a cure though, my friends. It's very simple. You just have to kill the Electric Slide at it's source. At it's heart and soul. Yes ... I'm talking about the grand master culprit .... the song "Strokin'" by Clarence Carter. Yes, I know! It's hard to resist that beat. When that song starts playing you can just feeeeeell the urge. Front front. Back Back. Slide slide. Rock forth, rock back.

You must fight it! Flee the dance hall! Run for the nearest exit at that wedding reception!

Save yourself from the douchebaggery of the Electric Slide!!!



Godspeed.

-Jonesy

Next time I recommend watching the Blue Angels air show on Vicodin...

Next time I recommend watching the Blue Angels air show on Vicodin...

Sometimes timing works out beautifully. You just have to embrace it. This past weekend was set up to be a complete wash-out with my minor surgery and all. I wasn't looking forward to staying indoors and experiencing any pain whatsoever. However, things began to look up around 3pmCST on Sunday afternoon.

As the painkillers began to grab hold of me ... I heard the faint unmistakable sound of jet engines in the distance. Oh that's right! This weekend is the Annual Chicago Air Show to be headlined by the mighty Blue Angels.

Now, I couldn't rightfully venture outdoors to watch the screaming metalic warriors overhead. I wasn't in any condition. So, I had to visualize the entire acrobatic performance from my drug-induced position on the sofa.

3:11pm: Here they go! I can hear them. Wow that was loud. That plane sounded like it was really low. They are just getting the crowd pumped up and on their feet.

3:20pm: They are probably doing some trick where two planes race towards each other and then turn away from each other at the last minute. I bet it was awesome.

3:22pm: Meanwhile, on the Spanish daytime soap opera .... someone is crying and I see cleavage

3:27pm: Another loud roar overhead. They are probably playing Whitesnake or something on the PA systems down by the lake. Dammit.

3:41pm: It's been quiet for a few minutes. Is the air show over? HOLY LORD ... the loudest burst of jet noise ever! They must be just getting warmed up.

3:46pm: Someone on TV is trying to sell me a juicer.

3:55pm: The finale. I bet those Angels are soaring over the Chicago skyline in their familiar diamond pattern. The eagles soar. Young men are signing up for the military. Babies are being conceived.

4:01pm: I wipe the drool off my shirt and shuffle to the freezer for another popsicle

"We Are The World" - The Drinking Game

I had some free time last night. I was walking around my apartment ... and I tripped and accidentally drank an entire bottle of Pinot Grigio.

Anyhoo, there was nothing interesting on television. Apparently, my scathing letters to the Fox Network demanding they remove the eyeball-scraping pile of shit sitcom they call "War At Home" have gone unanswered. So, I retreat to my office to see what the ol' "internets" has to offer.

I soon found myself watching the music video for "We Are The World". For the blind/deaf, Amish, oblivious, or just anyone who slept through the entire 1980s ... this was a star-studded singalong attempt to raise money to feed the hungry in Africa. A noble cause.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECDCty_qpSE&search=we%20are%20the%20world

So, let the game begin.

1) Drink every time someone sings who has now passed away
2) Drink every time you see Diana Ross barely able to stand up
3) Drink for awful lip-synching
4) Drink for each Pointer Sister on the screen
5) Drink every time Bruce Springsteen looks as if he may crap in his pants
6) Drink every time they spotlight Darryl Hall with John Oates trembling with rage in the background
7) Drink for every member of The News that ISN'T Huey Lewis
8) Drink every time you see Willie Nelson give Tina Turner a looks that says "bitch, quit hogging the microphone
9) Drink for any "Kenny" - Rogers or Loggins
10) Chug when you see Dan Aykroyd (did we ever figure out why the hell HE was there?)


Enjoy.

-Jonesy

At what point did you realize karate lessons weren't going to save your ass?

I remember as a seven year-old kid dragging my ass to the local YMCA once a week for Tae-Kwon-Do lessons. I hated it. It was the most pointless attempt at anything slightly recreational. The lessons were a joke. I paid very little attention. And needless to say I peaked as a Yellow Belt (for the uninformed ... that is one notch above a white belt ... meaning that my Mom's checks to the instructor cleared and he felt compelled to at least boost my confidence a tad by adorning me with the most faggy color known to man). Eat shit, Chuck Norris.

But I was one of the lucky ones. I got out while I could.

Nowadays I have to questions these hotshots that strut around claiming to be "Black Belts Of The 37th Degree" or whatever it is these days. Do you really find yourself in situations where your martial arts skills are put to the test? Most barfights or other "tests of strength" don't usually get the organizational attention that a karate sparring would need. I just don't see a perfect octagonal space being cleared out next to the shuffleboard table at McGrumpy's Tap ... let alone two guys taking the time to bow to each other before engaging in rapid-fire combat.

What I do know is this, Bruce. If I feel my life being threatened by your drunken antics ... you're not going to have time to take your stance for a butterfly round-house before I smash a bottle of Fat Tire over your face. 10 years of karate lesssons = $4000. One bottle of beer = $2.50 ($1 if it's Monday night).

I'm not a tough guy by any means. I have very few fighting hours under my belt. I will scramble at the first sign of danger like puppy when you rev up the vacuum. But that almost makes me more dangerous.

Nothing is scarier than picking a fight with someone like me who has no concept of the standard rules of engagement. I'm likely to charge you with arms flailing like the Looney Tunes Tasmanian Devil grabbing every bottle, utensil, stool, Golden Tee machine that is nearby to use at my defense. That is the position you put me in. I'm sorry, Sensei.


-Jonesy

Talking heavy metal with my grandpa...

As some of you may know ... VH1 just recently wrapped up their Month of Metal programming (entire month of May). I had a chance to watch some great shows and relive some "rockin'" memories of my childhood. But perhaps the greatest gift of joy I received was the afternoon I had a chance to sit down with my grandfather and watch "Heavy" a documentary on the history of hard rock music. Let me preface by saying my grandfather is 80 years old and has lived his entire life in the Deep South.

The following is a transcript of our conversation this one particular afternoon.

ME: Poppi, I don't mean to wake you up from your nap but do you mind if I change the channel? I think your golf game is over.

POPPI: Sure, I don't mind.

ME: Do you know where your pants are? I think the nieces are coming over and Mom might want you to get dressed.

POPPI: I'll get them in a minute. Whaddya watching?

ME: It's some documentary on the origins of heavy metal music.

POPPI: Ah, you still listen to that garbage? I remember you used to have all those posters in your room.

ME: Yeah, that was a long time ago.

POPPI: Shoot, it sure seems like it was only yester...

(my grandfather is momentarily distracted by the television)

POPPI: Holy shit, is that guy playing the drums with only one arm?!

ME: Yeah, he's the drummer for Def Leppard.

POPPI: Who?

ME: Def Leppard.

POPPI: Who?

ME (louder): Def Leppard.

POPPI: Hell, now I've seen it all.*


*Apparently my grandfather equates the sight of a one-armed man playing drums in a rock band to a revolution within the culture of society (i.e. - the Civil Rights Movement). I apologize, Mr. Rick Allen, to you and your family.

Open Letter #8

Dear Worst Soccer Mom Ever,


I know this may seem out of the blue, but it's something that I've been wanting get off my chest for roughly the past 20 years.


Look, I know you take your job seriously. That's admirable. But there is no reason to rule over those half-time orange slices like a fucking Nazi field commander. We are young. We are dehydrated. We are getting our asses kicked by the "Strikers". Is it our fault that you couldn't splurge another dollar and buy enough oranges so that everyone could have two? Last time I checked Vitamin C was a GOOD thing for growing young boys.


And let's talk about the post-game sodas. I don't understand how hard it is to purchase something normal like Coca-Cola or even Pepsi. But don't peddle your retarded no-name store brands off on us kids. Just because your husband got laid off doesn't mean our one moment of joy after a humiliating defeat has to be ruined by walking off the field holding a Sam's Choice "Dr Thunder". What a cheap knock off. And it's fucking warm too. Here's a tip... water cold temperature = ICE!!


There's a reason we all hate your son. It's because of your shitty refreshments.


Sincerely,


Jonesy (circa 1986)

Open Letter #7

Dear Kenny Loggins,

Hey, Kenny. How's the beard? Look I know you're a busy man. Well, actually I'm not sure about that. I mean not unless they have begun shooting Caddyshack III. But, regardless, I need your help.

My problem is this... I can't help but feel that the soundtrack to my life is missing something. A bonafied hit to be exact. And who else could I turn to but the grand master of movie soundtrack hitmakers. What you did with Top Gun ('Danger Zone"), Footloose ("Footloose"), and my personal favorite "Meet Me Half Way" from Over The Top, which I might add made that the best movie about arm-wrestling that I have ever seen.

Right now, the story of my life is missing that spark. I need you to rub that magic lamp one more time for me. Create for me that one theme song that will stand the test of time. I beg you. I implore. I'm desperate. Harold Faltermeyer has already turned me down.

Thank you, Mr. Loggins. I await your musical briliance.

Sincerely,

Jonesy

Open Letter #6

Dear Conrad Bain (aka Mr. Drummond from Diff'rent Strokes),

Are you still alive? It's really bugging the shit out of me.

Well, if so... here's to many more years of moving the world.

Sincerely,

Jonesy

Open Letter #5

Dear Tomatillo Red-Chili Salsa from Chipotle,

I don't know really how to say this but ... I think we should stop seeing each other. This back and forth of pleasure and pain in our relationship is really exhausting and I mean that literally. You taste so damn good on my burrito, but 4-6 hours later you turn into my worst enemy. You really know how to hurt a guy.

The menu lists your ingredients as chiles de abol, tomatillos, and fresh spices. I think those unlisted spices must include some sort of military-grade colon-incinerating powder developed in Tijuana by the Mexican military to combat the rampaging druglords who control the area.

The smile on my face as I consume your tangy goodness is quickly turned upside down soon after I adjourn to the confines of my bathroom. My fingers begin to claw at the wall in sheer terror much like a cat that has been thrown into a moving clothers dryer. As I endure the inferno, I glance around the room looking for any tools to perform a c-section on myself. I settle for some lamaze breathing. After a chat with God where I swear you off for good ... the pain soon subsides. I light a cigarette and sleep for 8 hours.

I just think we need some time apart. But I know it will probably not last and we'll be back in each others arms again. Until then...

Sincerely,

Jonesy

Open Letter #4

Dear Every Stand-Up Comedian Ever,

We get it. There are shitloads of Starbucks. They're everywhere. They're evil. Blah blah blah. But you know what? What did Starbuck's ever do to you but provide wonderful coffee that some of us happen to need twice every hour just to maintain some sort of coherence state of mind in our daily lives. I couldn't care less if there is a Starbuck's on every corner. If I walk into one of these fine establishments and the purple-haired aspiring actress behind the counter isn't moving quick enough for my satisfaction ... it is my god-given right as an American to be able to walk 3 ft. down the sidewalk to the other Starbuck's for my fix. Baby needs his candy. So, personally, I don't care if you're a Starbuck's, Caribou, Moosehumper's ... you're welcome in my neighborhood because every time a new coffee store goes up it means one thing... no space for another fucking Thai restaurant in Chicago!!!

(sip)

I'm sorry I yelled at you.

Sincerely,

Jonesy

Open Letter #3

Dear Guy Who Wears His Shirt Collar Flipped Up,

Someone lied to you. It looks retarded. There's a reason why John Cusack and Andrew McCarthy looked a little "funny" in all those movies from the 1980s. And it wasn't the coke. Just trying to help.

Sincerely,

Jonesy

Open Letter #2

Dear Root Beer Schnapps,

I see you down there on the bottom shelf behind the bar. Covered in dust. Many times I've thought about ordering you out of pity. You look so lonely. Gone are the days of the early 1990s when a shot of you would have been a HILARIOUS choice amongst friends and fellow drinkers. Now, thanks to the introduction of the "Jagerbomb", you are often left ignored. Please know that I miss you and I hope someday our paths will cross again.

P.S. - Please give my love to Razzmatazz.

Sincerely,

Jonesy

Open Letter #1

Dear Professional Lady in The Loop:

There you are. Making your way to work. Your stride is long. The look on your face is one of determination and success. You look so hot with your hair pulled tightly into a bun. I love your expensive-looking dark-colored business suit ... those sheer, classy pantyhouse ... and those fucking goofy gigantic bright-white Nike tennis shoes. I'm glad you're comfortable.

Sincerely,

Jonesy

"Alan"

Often we wake to our morning routines unaware of the discoveries that the day may bring. For me today was such a day. It is not yet 9:00am and already I've encountered an individual, a complete stranger if you will, who may have forever changed my life. That individual is Alan. Now, I never actually met Alan per se. I had only heard his name screamed a hundred times by his weary, distraught father. I first laid eyes on Alan as I was waiting for the bus on Diversey Avenue. Across the street I spot a portly raggedy man (imagine the comic book store owner on The Simpsons wearing his Sunday best) and standing next to this man was a short, bundled-up, faceless ball of raging energy. Yep, you guessed it... Alan. I felt my blood pressure rise immediately as I witnessed the youngster break free from his father's grasp and proceed to dart across the heavy morning traffic. The cries of "Alan, wait!" allowed us to be formally introduced. After the successful and often underestimated task of crossing the street... Alan and his father joined me as the only pathetic commuters waiting at this particular bus stop. Thankfully, our wait was short... here comes the bus. Now, one would think that since I was stationed at this particular bus stop before anyone else had arrived that I would qualify for being the first one to board the bus. Makes sense, right? Well, not according to Alan. As the bus hissed to a stop a stream of passengers attempted to depart hastily in order to catch the "EL train screaming over the tracks above. However, before these passengers have a chance to exit the bus... Alan makes his move. His scrawny, nimble stature allows him to squeeze through the door of the bus prematurely thus creating a confused bottleneck of commuters. It's a tangled mess of Caribou coffees and iPods. "Alan!" screams the father. "Wait your turn!." These words are water off a duck's back. Alan darts through the crowded bus and proudly chooses his favorite seat. The irony of which we will later see. As I graciously wait my turn to board the bus, I begin to get a sick feeling in my stomach. I pay my fare and proceed to the only available seat on the bus. Directly across the aisle and only inches from the Tasmanian Devil himself... Alan The Terrible. I think to myself... it's only a few blocks... everything will be okay. For a few seconds everything seemed to be going smoothly. Alan sat quietly in his seat staring out the window. But that wasn't meant to last. A crack-like mixture of Fruity Pebbles and orange juice must have been flowing through little Alan's veins for he proceeded to bolt from his seat and run wind-sprints up and down the aisle of the bus. And not quiet adorable wind-sprints but those that are accompanied by a young child's shriek. Oh god only a few more stops and then I can flee this pre-pubescent terror and retreat to the confines of my warm, quiet apartment. Why do we keep stopping? Does EVERYONE drive to work down the same street? Hey, Coca Cola delivery man, could you have a bigger fricking truck? Our bus can't pass you! The light is green... GO GO GO! A few more blocks to go... "Alan, sit down!" "Alan, sit down!" "Alan, sit down! "Alan, sit down!" One more block... oh god yes here's my stop. I scurried towards the exit door. Screw the little green light. I burst through and begin running. Running for my life. When I arrived home here and caught my breath I couldn't help but glance every now and then at the knife sitting on my kitchen counter. If self-castration was the answer to the problem of bringing more little "Alan"s into this world. Then god help me... I was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.

-Jonesy