Hype & Jive Productions

Almost Canadian.

2010-02-19T22:54:00.010-06:00

Everyone has those milestone memories. You know the ones: "I remember watching the moon landing in my parents' living room..." or "I'll never ever forget the day when I first heard JFK shot John Lennon...” Blah blah blah, you get the idea. Well, for me, February 19 2010 will always be the day I learned that I was "this close" to being born and raised in Canada.

The year was 1976. Two years earlier, for some ungodly reason, my parents had decided to move to the ball-chafing tundra of Edmonton, Alberta. As fate would have it...it was here, in this frigid fur-trapping outpost leftover from the earliest days of our Pleistocene Ice Age, that my folks said to themselves "Hey, you know who would get a kick out of this? A newborn infant."

Lucky for me, my parents turned out to only be armchair sadists. Maybe it was the buzz from the Molson finally wearing off or simply the fear that their offspring might one day develop a passion for figure skating...either way the units decided it was time to pack it up and move back to Dixie.

Flash-forward to an Arkansas hospital on that June day in 1977. It was then and there my mother graciously brought me into this world... and my first words just happened to be "Holy sh*t what's up with this humidity??"

-Jonesy

A late start to my 2010 resolution...

2010-02-14T13:10:00.008-06:00

I'm going to start giving this little web site a little more attention. After all, the worst kind of writer is a lazy writer. Meanwhile, enjoy some Ronnie Milsap while I shake off the rust...

-Jonesy

Jonesy's 2009 Xmas Wishlist...

2009-12-17T08:04:00.005-06:00

I made this for my grandma. but you can watch it too.

"Dirty Cops, Dirty Diapers"

2009-08-19T11:08:00.003-05:00

Courtesy of the 48Hour Film Project.

Poster...

2009-08-10T15:50:00.002-05:00

From the archives: Well ... I definitely tanked THAT audition....

2009-08-10T03:06:00.003-05:00

There comes a time in most people's lives when they have to accept reality. It stings but sometimes it's necessary to accept your fate and just move on. My realization?...

I was never meant to be a Knight at Medieval Times.

Every year auditions are held. The best and brightest and most desperate actors show up in masses to fight for that one slot... that one chance at glory.... to prance around in equestrian glory... in front of a bunch of tourists eating baked chicken.

Upon my arrival to the audition, I quickly gauge the competition. I am confident even though I'm about 100 lbs heavier than everyone else. Oh, and I've never ever ridden a horse in my entire life. These are minor details. After all, it's all about the PASSION.

They assigned all of us a number that we pinned onto our chests. Much like entering a marathon. They then divided us into two groups. Strangely, the two groups did not equal in number. My group consisted of about 4 or 5 people and we ranged from an ex-Romanian basketball player, a 70-year-old retired trucker from Alabama, a Sri Lankan named Hergdeesh, a housewife from the South Side, and myself. The other group was anywhere between 20-30 people. I haven't figured that one out. I guess there was a math error or something. But anyway...

The first part of the audition consisted of a monologue. I had no idea about this and totally didn't prepare anything. As my turn got nearer and nearer I was racking my brain trying to come up with something, anything that would suffice as a monologue. When my number was called I found myself just launching into jokes I remembered from Eddie Murphy "Delirious". They cut me off about 2 minutes into it just when I was getting to a great line about turds floating in the bathtub. Apparently, Medieval Times is a PG-rated family show. They always wait until the last fucking minute to tell you these kinds of things.

So then we move onto some basic weapons and theatrical combat. I figure if there was an area in which I would blow away the competition... this would be it. I was very very wrong. First, they pitted two of us against each other. We are both handed fake styrofoam swords. And they tell us to just take it nice and easy and that they are just evaluating our grace and poise. Well, they ring the bell and I immediately chunk my fake sword off to the side and lunge towards my opponent. After a nice sweep-the-leg I manage to bring the other dude down to the mat. I proceed with a few elbow drops and attempt a figure-four-leglock. Suddenly, there is a rush of people pulling me off this guy. Apparently, they frown upon "improv" at these auditions.

The final round of the auditions consist of the horse-back riding skills. Like I said earlier I completely lied about my equestrian training. Sometimes you have to fidge a little on your resume in the acting biz. Everyone does it. Dog eat dog.

So I realize my first mistake was stating that I have 10+ years as an advanced rider and once earned a collegiate scholarship to Dartmouth for "horse jumping". But I figure I can probably just wing it.

My turn for the riding audition quickly approaches. I am told that I have been assigned to a horse named " Volcano Spitfire Amphetamine". Cool, no problem. He sounds like a gentle angel.

Again, keeping with the ruse that I am a horseback riding "pro"... I refuse any help mounting my steed. As the chute opens it only takes about 1/8 of a second to realize that all they want to see is that I can ride in a straight line ... and that the spurs I brought along with me are COMPLETELY un-necessary. So the horse and I come bucking out of the chute and I soon realize there was absolutely no reason for me to have wrapped my hand in the bridle reigns. I am quickly thrown from the horse's back and flung to the ground... yet my hand is still caught in the leather straps. As I'm being dragged around the arena with my face tilling the soft American dirt... I start contemplating just what IS art and is it worth alot of the pain and anguish involved in bringing it to the masses. As my body is flung violenty into the metal barricade separating the audience from the performers... I start pondering the works of Aristophanes and what truly defines performance and comedy. Finally, as I feel the prick of the IV in my arm and the sudden rush of adrenaline as my femur is jammed back into place... I think to myself ... you know maybe I should think about getting into radio.

-Jonesy

From the archives: Illinois Senator Dick Durbin responds to Jonesy's concerns...

2009-08-07T10:36:00.001-05:00

The Old Negro Space Program

2009-08-06T11:04:00.004-05:00

A classic. By Andy Bobrow.

From the archives: "What the world needs right now is more movies co-starring orangutans"

2009-07-27T14:48:00.000-05:00

I wanted to share this yesterday on Sept. 11 because I truly believe it's something for the whole world to get behind during troubled times like this. But I refrained from my preaching until today Sept 12 out of respect for others.

Folks, we need more movies featuring the hilarious antics of orangutans. This is not a joke. I am very serious. Go back in time with me if you will. The 1970s. A glorious time when pant legs were enormous and no one bothered shaving ... anywhere.

It was during this time that Hollywood come up with a brilliant idea. Pair up an iconic badass actor like Clint Eastwood with an orangutan named Clyde ... and just let the cameras role. The results being the Oscar-worthy films Every Which Way But Loose and its sequel-in-crime Any Which Way You Can.

And the fans laughed. And it was good.

That wacky grin when Clyde showed his teeth. They way the he would flutter its lips, wear a funny hat, or just unload and slap someone in the face. Pure gold.

Sadly, the momentum of this celluloid phenomenon was short-lived. Just as soon as the orangutans burst on the scene ... they soon faded. Yes, there was a brief orangutan cameo in Cannonball Run 2. But let's face it .. he was paired with Tony Danza. I only need to see one ape hamming it up on screen. Not two.

The years began to pass and the orangutan was still nowhere to be found. Sure, there was the movie Dunston Checks In .. but let's face it .. it just wasn't the same.

So, I am calling out to you, people. Write to the studios and your members of congress.

Let's bring back the orangutan.

Burt Reynolds thanks you.

-Jonesy

From the archives: "Okay, so I bought a Big Wheel off eBay..."

2009-07-27T14:40:00.001-05:00

Yes that's right. I bought a classic retro Big Wheel for roughly $40. Just like this one...

Now, the item description clearly states that the toy is for children ages 3-8 and has a weight limit of 70 lbs. These are two MINOR details I chose to ignore. This is America after all not communist China.

I placed the order and anxiously awaited its delivery. After a few days of stalking the mail carrier ... it finally arrived. Oddly, the box did not come in the shape of a Big Wheel. This alarmed me. This box was a tight, heavy rectangle. Much like cardboard boxes you've seen homeless people living in or someone breakdancing on. I digress.

I rip open the box to reveal a brightly colored jumbled mess. Fuck me, assembly required. So, I clear a space in the living room and get to work. I quickly admire the plastic craftmanship ... something that was simply not appreciated as a seven-year-old kid hopped up on Skittles and Laffy Taffy.

After several hours, a dinner break, and a power nap ... I had finished construction on what would be dubbed "Jonesy's Mean Machine".

I stepped back to admire the blazing red and yellow chick-magnet that lay before me. It was time to ride.

After some brief stretching exercises I slowly ease myself into position. The plastic begins to quiver and creak like the planks aboard the Titanic. I hold my breath and pause. Slowly I shift myself back into the seat and bring one leg over the steering column. My knees are now positioned directly in front of my eyelids. I can taste the dried mustard on my pants from two days ago. I have just invented a new yoga position: The Uncomfortable Retard.

Denying myself the reality of the situation ... I vow to continue.

I extend my legs just enough to gently place the edges of my feet upon the peddles. Praying to the gods of inertia ... I manage some semblance of a rotating action with my legs causing the front wheel to begin its revolutions. The combination of plastic, hard wood floors, and 200 lbs of midnight pizzas and Cartoon Network left very little room for torque. The Big Wheel did not budge.

I began a desperate pelvic thrust hoping that would get things moving. My toy humping proved fruitless. Gravity had failed me.

Exhausted, I felt a mixed bag of emotions as the tears began to stream down my face. Saddness turned to rage. Back and forth until I had pounded the wall and cried myself to sleep.

I have learned from my experience. People were meant to grow out of their toys. Maybe I can find some other fuel for my nostalgia. A Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine perhaps. Perhaps. Some day.

But for now ... I have to figure out how to get a Big Wheel out of my neighbor's tree.

-Jonesy

How about a round of applause for the FBI's "image speculation" department?

2009-07-27T11:19:00.009-05:00

A few days ago the FBI nabbed one of their Most Wanted fugitives. His story can be found here.

This dude was on the lam for 15 years. And I think I understand why.

Here is what he used to look like:

This is what some FBI graphics department intern in D.C. thinks he might have looked like (note the state-of-the-art technology using millions of taxpayer dollars):

And this is the reality:

Keep on truckin', Hoover.

-Jonesy

Jonesy's Music Review: Steven Seagal & Thunderbox "Talk To My Ass" (2006)

2009-07-26T15:26:00.000-05:00

Title = hilarious. Song = awful.

-Jonesy

Crippling Discomfort: A Lunch-Hour Quest for BBQ Nachos.

2009-07-24T16:18:00.003-05:00

The idea was innocent enough. So we thought. What better way for three guys to tackle the end-of-the-week hunger pangs than by combining two culinary favorites into one economically-sound meal. The math is simple: tortilla chips, covered in melted cheese, topped with a pile of smoked pulled pork BBQ. Yeah, I know what you're thinking...how could we not see trouble coming a mile away. Well, I can say the same thing about your bran muffin, Mister Healthy. So, shut up.

Everything went down fine at first. No surprises, taste buds still intact. But that was to be the calm before the storm. Here, now, are the email transcripts in chronological order (names changed to protect the innocent):

"Marty" (1:57pm): Man, I'm full.
"Brett" (1:58pm): Yeah me too.
"Rick" (1:59pm): Shouldn't have finished the entire plate.

"Marty" (2:10pm): I might need a nap.
"Brett" (2:12pm): No kidding. Glad it's Friday.
"Rick" (2:13pm): My stomach just made a "barking" sound.

"Marty" (3:02pm): I just let a fart rip in front of our VP-International Sales.
"Brett" (3:05pm): Whoa don't get fired. Maybe you should go home early...
"Rick" (3:11pm): I can't stop sweating. This can't be good.

"Marty" (3:37pm): Okay I thought I was fine but I'm definitely not. I had to take my pants off.
"Brett" (3:38pm): Haha. Told ya. This dude I work with came by my desk and asked if I was doing okay because I was breathing so heavily. I told him to f*ck off.
"Brett" (3:39pm): Where's Rick?
"Marty" (3:40pm): Dunno.

"Rick" (4:43pm): I've been in the bathroom for the past hour. My boss called the fire department because she thought I was dying. I'm lying in the floor of the lobby as we speak with a cold wet towel over my forehead. our receptionist is looking through my wallet for a number for my next-of-kin. everything I see is purple. it feels like a pack of wolverines is gnawing through my stomach...but I can't move a muscle because I'm paralyzed from the dehydration. if I don't make it I at least want to have documentation of my last words and they are....Marty and Brett, f*ck you for making me eat BBQ nachos. see ya'll on Monday..hopefully.

My goal is to eradicate this carrots n' raisins crap from our planet...one salad bar at a time.

2009-07-17T09:31:00.003-05:00

Gross.

-Jonesy

Communication is KEY in the world of business...

2009-07-15T10:42:00.003-05:00

Source: Classified.

-Jonesy

"The Yard Bull"

2009-07-13T23:59:00.002-05:00

Chalk me up as a fan.

Happy 4th of July!

2009-07-04T17:29:00.006-05:00

Ahhh. Feels good to be back in Little Rock where "nothing exciting happens."

(**The image above is taken from the 1986 made-for-TV movie "Under Siege" filmed in LR. It's just make-believe, people. Don't freak out on me.**)

-Jonesy

Awake from my nap.

2009-06-18T21:49:00.004-05:00

I have things I want to say. And I like to pretend that people are listening. After a little mental fiber...let's see if I can get things flowing again. Stay tuned. :-)

-Jonesy

Oh, man. We can TOTALLY take these guys.

2009-03-09T20:09:00.002-05:00

"McRib"

2009-01-28T20:06:00.004-06:00

I want to be the guy who gets to name the monster trucks when they are born.

2009-01-04T13:55:00.002-06:00

-Jonesy

This is better than coffee (metaphorically speaking)

2008-12-28T01:50:00.002-06:00

-Jonesy

"Worst Commute Ever."

2008-09-03T14:15:00.002-05:00

Some old footage of us goofing around in Nebraska. Co-starring Brian Vogler. Original direction, cinematography, costume, wardrobe, craft service by Jeremy Kruse.

-J&W

Breaking News: Actual Footage from Jonesy's Failed Tryout for the U.S. Olympic "Dream Team"

2008-08-08T18:46:00.002-05:00

-J&W

Seriously. I realize it's only July ... but I already know what I want for Christmas and it's this t-shirt...

2008-07-19T22:14:00.002-05:00

I wear a Child's 5XL.

-Jonesy

Tales Of The West: Manzo Jerky

2008-07-19T15:33:00.000-05:00

Courtesy of Felonland Films.

-J&W

Great company. Great product. Questionable casting. :-)

2008-07-15T11:13:00.002-05:00

Most patient film crew ever. This only took me 87.5 takes.

-Jonesy

Waaaaait a minute ... no one ever told me Enya was HOT!!!

2008-07-11T22:21:00.000-05:00

Perhaps it's because I've spent my entire life running away from her complete body of work. But I really had no idea she was this striking. So here is my open love letter to Enya:

Dear Enya,

Even though when I hear your music I suddenly feel like I am trapped for eternity inside a flaming elevator of terror filled with itchy wool sweaters as it plummets at a speed of Mach 2 down a shaft of razorblades and acid two-thousand floors through the Earth's crust, past the mantle, before splashing down in a boiling cauldron of Satan's urine the day after the Super Bowl....would you like to have dinner sometime?

Owner Of A Lonely Heart,

Jonesy

"Truth In Advertising"

2008-07-07T13:25:00.002-05:00

A classic video. Submitted by my dad. :-)

-Jonesy

Suck it, King George III

2008-07-03T21:22:00.002-05:00

Nice hat, ass.

Happy Birthday, America.

-J&W

I was just told that I was under-qualified to work at a fireworks stand.

2008-06-26T12:56:00.002-05:00

Well, chalk up another strike-out for this batter. I was so confident that I had nailed that 2nd interview too. I suppose it’s my own fault. I wasn’t as prepared as I thought I was. I think my first mistake was when I accidentally addressed the interviewer as “Dave”. Turns out his name is “Dale” and I had written it down wrong in my notes. He said to me: “Mister Jones, I did not earn the title of Senior Vice President, Director of Human Resources here at Dixie’s Explosion Barn ... only to have people like yourself get my name wrong.”

I can’t say that I blame him. But I think he was going to at least let it slide. After all, he seemed to like my resume. I had no prior felonies. He was impressed that I knew Powerpoint. But then it happened. That one part of the interview that we all dread…

“Name THREE types of fireworks you would use to describe yourself and why."

Oh god.

I paused for a moment and answered with the following…

1) Whistling Bottle Rocket – “a typical day for me usually consists of a high-pitched ear-splitting shriek followed by a quick unsatisfying climax”

2) Smoke Bomb – “cheap, boring, and smells like egg farts”

3) Sparkler – “completely flaming and loved by four-year-olds”

So, I really don’t see where I could have messed up.

Oh well. There’s always next year I guess.

-Jonesy

Jonesy's 80s Music Video "Cliffs Notes" - Issue #1

2008-06-16T17:10:00.002-05:00

Tom Petty - You Got Lucky

We open up in a fictional post-Apocalyptic setting that, oddly, looks a lot like Barstow, CA.

The producers spared no expense with the special effects budget as we see Petty and guitarist Mike Campbell pull to a stop on the side of a rural highway driving what appears to be... a bar of soap.

Soon after, the rest of the Heartbreakers arrive... riding a oddly phallic crotch-rocket w/ side car. Of course, they are all dressed in “futuristic” clothing which apparently in 1982 means … wearing Old West clothes that may or may not resemble 1986. Yeah, I’m confused too.

Anyway, jumping ahead... The gang enters a time capsule made from discarded trash bags where they discover an array of “relic” audio/video equipment. Did I mention there is a fully functional disco ball inside too?

Blah blah blah… someone wins at a slot machine… Petty plays Donkey Kong... then Campbell steals a guitar and the video is over.

Jonesy’s 80s Video Rating: 6.5 out of 10

Have you ever just had one of those days?

2008-06-11T12:31:00.001-05:00

-Jonesy & Wayne

If you could bottle the feeling these soldiers had in their stomachs at :55 ...you'd have a good idea of how I feel for about 7 hours every day

2008-06-07T19:57:00.001-05:00

-Jonesy

Under Seige 3: Old Country Buffet

2008-05-31T21:32:00.002-05:00

"Are there any more cornbread muffins in the back .... punk?"

-Jonesy

Oh. My. God.

2008-05-19T18:18:00.002-05:00

Summer of '87 was without a doubt the fashion tipping-point for the male siblings of the Jones family.

Behind that proud smile, my father is crying inside...fearful that his two sons would be forever scarred by their decision to choose their own wardrobe.

I don't quite recall the functional purpose of my lone black glove. Perhaps it was to grip a baseball bat in defense of the certain pummeling that would no doubt come to anyone wearing a bunny-rabbit-adorned purple tank-top and yellow shorts.

Thank you, Polaroid. You have both preserved my fondest memories and haunted me forever. :-)

-Jonesy

Where the heck are all the jackasses willing to hurl themselves over Niagra Falls inside a barrel when you really need one?

2008-05-17T13:49:00.002-05:00

That’s the boost the world needs right now. Are there simply no more heroes? What happened to the go-getting American/Canadian daredevils from days of old? Where’s that North American pride? Alas, I suppose my heart will forever remain in 1985.

I'd do it but I'm kind of claustrophobic.

-Jonesy

Sh*tty Popsicles.

2008-05-07T19:34:00.002-05:00

Man, leave it to me to return home from the store with the ONE brand of sh*tty Popsicles. How is this even possible? How do you screw up a Popsicle? There is only one thing easier to make than a Popsicle. And that's ice. Seriously. Right now there is some rogue manufacturing facility churning out thousands and thousands of cases a day of sh*tty Popsicles. Why are we letting this happen? I'm quite certain the Chinese are even more emboldened with their position as the world's superpower now that they have seen the Unites States' horrific Popsicle-making track record.

First of all, I'll admit... I truly had no idea there were that many choices for Popsicles. But there I was standing in front of the freezer-case at Grocery Barn staring a feet, nay, yards of popsicliness.

Perhaps my first mistake was choosing the brand that was on sale. Momma taught me well. But it's a Popsicle for crying out loud. There shouldn't even be a quality scale here. It should be a blind choice with a unanimous outcome ... yummy.

So, here I am trying choke down this thing. Aw, man, the paper wrapper won't come off! Yay, I just love the taste of lime and wood pulp. This is lime isn't it?

It can't be. It tastes like how my dentist's office smells.

Ugh.

And I can't just throw them away... ya know, because of the ants.

-Jonesy

Segways. So what the hell happened there?

2008-05-07T10:09:00.002-05:00

There is absolutely nothing cool about this whatsoever.

-Jonesy

Summer Camp … grooming right-wing militia children for decades

2008-04-10T12:39:00.002-05:00

I can remember that day vividly. It was an unseasonably mild Saturday in June of 1987. Sitting in the backseat of my father’s conversion van as we roared through the peaks and valleys of the Ozark Mountains. I was excited, focused, and petrified all at once. Seven miles away from my first experience at a religiously-sanctioned summer camp. Will my cabin be too humid at night? What kind of rations will be provided at chow time? Will any girls even talk to me? These are the usual questions that race through a young lad’s mind on his way to his first overnight adventure away from home.

But my situation was different.

Approximately three months earlier I had received a phone call at home. I remember it was late in the evening because we had just finished eating dinner and were gathering in front of the television to watch Falcon Crest. My parents felt it strange for a 10-year-old to receive a phone call so late in the evening. And I agreed. But I took the call.

“Can you find a safe room to talk in private?” the deep male voice asked on the other end. “Um, okay” I replied. Crouched inside the kitchen pantry with the phone up to my ear, I listened. The man went on to introduce himself as Colt “Bruce” McMasterson, a senior-level agent with the Bureau Of Alcohol, Tobacco, & Firearms.

I was being recruited. My country needed me. I have no idea to this day how they found me. I’m thinking it was probably that subscription for the Sweet Pickles book series I placed through school. Regardless, my name was pulled from the hat. I was drafted.

“We need you to go undercover and infiltrate the Blessed Rock Christian Bible Summer Camp. We have reason to believe they are conducting domestic terrorism training operations within their compound. The only way we can determine for sure is to put a man on the inside to gather intelligence. That’s why we need you.”

“Uhhh.” I replied.

“You will be deployed in June. We’ll fax you the dossier in the meantime.”

“Fax? What the hell is a fax?” I stammered.

“Good point. Okay we’ll mail it to you instead.” Bruce barked.

So, flash-forward back to that June day. I wave goodbye to my parents and immediately start prepping myself for the mission of a lifetime. The week I spent at the summer camp is pretty much a blur. The constant paranoia of being “outed” as spy created a steady flow of adrenaline that pretty much wiped out my memory. But thankfully my notes from which I compiled my report are still intact. I found them in a box up in my Mom’s attic along with my lone soccer trophy (Most Punctual Player).

Here’s the breakdown:

Day One: making friends within the “Buckaroos” cabin isn’t going to be easy. Most of the other kids are friendly, but I feel a power struggle building under the surface. Some kid’s mom packed him a few boxes of Fruit Roll-Ups. He’s going to be hard to take down. My bunk smells like vanilla milkshake and fart.

Day Two: my first real day of activity observation and the leaders wasted no time in jumping right into the heavy stuff. Two full hours on the archery range. There is definitely a decent level of talent here. One scrawny kid was in tears claiming that he wasn’t strong enough to pull the string back on the bow. But I think he’s hiding something.

Day Three: horseback riding. I find strange some of the names of these horses: “Buttercup”, “Thunder”, “Falwell”, “Crossburn”, and “Incest.”

Day Four: during our regular post-dinner assembly, the camp leaders instruct us to repeat and series a melodic chants over and over again. A form of brainwashing no doubt. I’m fairly certain that John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt is someone they want us to kill.

Day Five: marksmanship. Now they are just being brazen about their intentions. The talent level again is off the charts. I’m fairly certain the Pope is going to be assassinated by barrage of pellet fire.

Day Six: I had wicked diarrhea today. Never left cabin. Nothing to report.

Day Seven: it rained today, so the entire camp participated in arts & crafts … or Bomb-making 101, as I like to call it. Like a factory full of sweatshop workers we were instructed on the multiple uses for sharp objects and chemical adhesives.

Day Eight: my last full day of activities before camp ends. Those of us who have earned the trust of the leaders were trained in a most lucrative skill. Bumper boats. I’m pretty sure this is how the world is going to end. For two solid hours we learned how to operate and effectively ram each other with motorized inner tubes. The bumper boats created potential lethal killing machines in all of us. It’s possible these devices will be dispersed throughout the globe strapped with explosives with the goal of destroying anything in their path. I fear for the safety of our sailors.

The next morning my parents arrived to pick me up. I looked back over my shoulder as we departed the camp. I was relieved that my mission was over and that I somehow survived. I was proud of my patriotism, and scared for the future.

I never did figure out what caused that diarrhea.

-Jonesy

Jonesy ponders his "Bacon Threshold".

2008-03-27T15:25:00.002-05:00

Quite often when I’m passing the time with friends and neighbors, the chit-chatty small-talk almost always finds its way to the subject of The End Of The World or The Destruction Of Mankind As We Know It. I mean, what can I say? I’m definitely a glass half-full kind of guy … but that glass is usually half-full of hobo urine.

There is usually a point during these conversations where I find myself rolling my eyes in disdain as I’m listening to someone go on and on about “what they would do if they only had one day left to live … one single day left on this planet.” Believe me, I’ve heard it all. How you would have sex with as many supermodels in 24 hours as you possibly could. Sure. Let me know how that works out for you. Will you be wearing that same flip-flops/white socks combo when you woo these ladies? Or here’s another one I love… “I would seek forgiveness from those who I’ve wronged and tell everyone I know that I love them. That way I can perish in peace.” Blow me, Gandhi.

What would I do if I only had one single day left of my life before it was all gone? For me, the answer is quite simple.

I would finally determine my bacon threshold.

Let me explain. I love bacon. That’s certainly not unheard of. It is quite tasty. But I really love bacon. So much so that at times I have wondered just how much bacon I could consume in one sitting. Believe me, I’ve been tempted. But of course the same variables always hold me back. Too much of anything can’t be good for you, right? Maybe I will get violently sick? Maybe I would go into immediate cardiac arrest? Sure, perhaps. But at exactly what point would all of this occur? This is a question I have pondered since my first BLT. Three pounds? Ten pounds?

I imagine a scenario playing out like this…

The streets are on fire. A wall of chaos and hysteria is raining down upon the Earth. People running everywhere. Looting. Rioting. Total Armageddon.

And there I will stand in my kitchen gazing peacefully out the window as the world ends. Wearing my favorite “May The Forks Be With You” apron. Before me on the table sits a Matterhorn-sized pile of pork bellies. I will stretch, take a few deep breathes and I will eat. And smile. And then I will eat some more. And when I am finished I will kneel gently down on the floor. And I will pray ... that Hell does indeed have indoor plumbing.

-Jonesy

I feel no shame in taking a 3-year-old's money.

2008-03-23T15:02:00.001-05:00

My niece wanted to get in on a little NCAA tournament pool action. I was happy to oblige. Easiest twenty bucks I've ever made. Here's her bracket. I'm totally going to smoke her ass.

-Jonesy

"20 Questions"

2008-03-22T12:55:00.002-05:00

This is quite possibly the dumbest game ever. Whoever invented it is stupid and I hate their stupid face.

-Jonesy

So, apparently we're NOT doing Hands Across America today???

2008-03-18T12:23:00.002-05:00

Ha. Freakin’. Ha. Verrrry funny, everyone. I was standing out there in the middle of the street … in the bitter cold … for about two hours with my arms slightly elevated to my sides … and NO ONE ELSE SHOWED UP. Thanks a lot! And on my lunch hour too! Maybe you get a good chuckle out of taking advantage of people like me. People who give and give and are always willing to lend …yes, a f*ckin HAND so that we may link ourselves across this great nation of ours in the name of some charity or whatever. But now? Now, I am going to think long and hard before getting involved. I’m learning that there are some who are quick to mock my generosity and gullibility. First, it was WEAR BIKE-SHORTS TO WORK DAY in support of breast cancer research, which I quickly and painfully realized is a tradition that does not exist. Nor does PUNCH-A-COP FOR BOSNIA. Maybe I’m to blame here. Maybe I just care too much and refuse to believe that anyone would joke and prank when it comes to being a good philanthropist. I hope you are all happy. I hope you had your laughs and snickers and guffaws at my expense. But it will take a lot more than that to keep me down!

-Jonesy

P.S. – At this point I don’t know if this weekend’s STREAK-ACROSS-O’HARE-RUNWAY for Autism Research is legit or not. But I will be there. As promised.

Jonesy's Top 5 Favorite Songs Written To Raise Money For A Cause And That Were Sung By A Bunch Of Celebrities

2008-03-06T09:26:00.002-06:00

Global Warming. Whales. Ethiopians.

There have been many great causes during my lifetime. And for me personally there hasn't been any better way to voice one's concerns and bring people's attention to an issue than a good ol' rootin' tootin' gathering of miscellaneous singers and celebrities to record a song that Quincy Jones probably had written while taking his morning constitution. So here now are my Top 5 All Time Picks for Best Songs Written To Raise Money For A Cause And That Were Sung By A Bunch Of Celebrities...including title of song and cast list of singers...

#5 "USA for Canada"
(Moby, Mike Meyers, Willie Nelson, Eddie Vedder, Los Lobos, Lebron James, Kermit The Frog, Keenan Ivory Wayans)

#4 "Free The Duluth Twelve"
(Pointer Sisters, Sting, Slash, Andy Dick, Regis Philbin, Moby, Cher, Ted Danson, David Allan Coe)

#3 "Lemon Aid"
(Moby)

#2 "Mmmuhmuhmmuhmuhmusicians Against Stuttering"
(Jason Priestly, Hall, Tito Jackson, Waylon Jennings, Oates, Bob Geldof, Phil Collins)

#1 "Fuck Tibet"
(Run DMC, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Vince Neil, Steve Perry, Kenny G, Charo, Moby's uncle)

Maybe someone will listen next time...

2008-03-03T17:39:00.000-06:00

Can we finally admit that the "Cavemen" idea was never funny to begin with? The GEICO commercials sucked, so therefore, it's quite obviously that any franchise raping of this lame character is going to be equally awful. Whether it be a sitcom, feature film, pop album. Whatever. It all sucks. Let's admit the failure and allow it to disappear from our lives. Thank you.

-Jonesy

P.S. - I mean can't we light Michael Jackson's hair on fire again? Now that was good advertising.

What The World Needs Now Is Another Celebrity To Get Hit In The Face By A Bird.

2008-02-27T20:56:00.000-06:00

This was the greatest day of my life.

-Jonesy

Jonesy's Saint Valentine's Day Massacre...

2008-02-13T14:40:00.002-06:00

Two things are quite evident.

1) I have problems.

2) I need a good woman to straighten me out now more than ever.

Unfortunately, Florence Henderson still won't return my calls.

What Are We Going To Do About John Stamos?

2008-01-25T15:34:00.002-06:00

"Ode To Noah"

2008-01-24T10:20:00.002-06:00

I was rifling through some old files the other day and I came across a poem I had written for English class back in the Fall of '94. I didn't have many friends back then.

Beep beep blips the heart rate machine.

Much like my own heart pines for thee.

Rejoice! The wonder that is must see Thursday.

Wyle is the Noah, Wiley is the coyote.

Stat! Stat!

Bring hither the Ccs!

Morphine for my soul that longs to meet the man, the hair, the Carter.

Rejoice! Thy emmy awaits, reach out and taketh.

-Jonesy

The Rubber Chicken Of Inspiration

2008-01-15T11:39:00.002-06:00

Someone at work didn't think I would create this Powerpoint presentation and then present it to the entire company during one of our meetings. They were wrong.

-Jonesy

Wow. My Netflix queue is quite awesome and terrible.

2008-01-08T13:37:00.000-06:00

I really wish I could remember my state of mind when this chunk of inspiration was created. Must have been out of meds that day. WTF???

-Jonesy

Everyone keeps telling me that retro-fashion is “in”. So, last night I wore my head gear from 3rd grade out to the bar...

2008-01-06T00:53:00.000-06:00

And I gotta tell ya... I really felt like one of those catwalk supermodels they way everyone was staring at me slack-jawed. All eyes on me. What can I say? It felt good.

But, ya know, I'm sure it's going to get really lame when EVERYONE starts wearing their head gears. Before you know it... retainers, spit-guards, and any other orthodontic appliance you can think of is going to be flying off the shelf of every hipster thrift store in the U.S. And then probably Latin America a few years from now when they catch up to our trends.

But at least I can say I was there. Where it all started.

-Jonesy

Nothing gives us bigger boners than concert lasers...

2007-12-28T11:34:00.000-06:00

Earlier in 2007, Jonesy & The Wayne graced the fine people of Hoffman Estates with their presence by attending the recital of a fine group of whipper-snappers that perform under the moniker "Tool".

Now, first off, I think it should be clarified that I was under the auspice that we were attending a hardware trade show. Ticketmaster was NOT very clear in their description of the event. But, being the good sport that I am, I did not immediately demand to return to our vehicle and decided that perhaps a little culture is just what I needed.

Upon entering the venue, we were greeted with the words "Prepare to have your face melted, f*ckers!". The enthusiasm on display was encouraging. Although, initially I was a tad disappointed that we would not be treated to display upon display of the latest socket-wrenches and leaf-blowers, I soon settled into my seat and buckled in for the ride.

We made acquaintances with our section neighbors almost immediately. To our left, sat "Doug" an unemployed father of four. Tonight was Doug's 27th seeing The Tool. Directly, behind us sat "Roach" a young lad in his early teens accompanied by his girlfriend Britney. We immediately could tell that Roach was an experienced concert attendee because he even thought to bake cookies for the show. He offered a cookie to both of us and we happily obliged. They were quite tasty, albeit a tad "earthy" in flavor. But I was grateful for the snack.

Approximately another 15 minutes or so passed and the lights in the arena started to dim. The crowd began to roar. With a blast of bass and treble, the band took the stage and embarked on an onslaught of glorious rock sounds. Above the stage, a large projection screen dances with seductive imagery. And then the lasers, those sweet f*cking lasers, tickled my face. Seizure shmeizure. Give me more.

But then I lost it.

Somehow, and without much recollection, I have now managed to curl up into a sweating, nervous ball of paranoia. The arena is breathing, talking to me. It has literally come alive as it proceeds to mind-rape every lobe of my brain.

I look next to me. I'm not even able to recognize Wayne who stands only inches away. He's loving every minute of it and in my eyes is no longer my human friend but rather an evil gyrating swirl of hair. I'm all alone. Abandoned with my own insanity.

This goes on for hours. At least so I'm told.

When I finally come to my senses, I'm stumbling across a suburban parking lot. Clomping along to the shitty sounds of Daughtry blaring from the cabs of Ford F-150s. FEAR THIS window stickers as far as the eye can see.

I'm battered and weary. But much wiser. And now the biggest fan of The Tool Band. Ever.

Oh, and I also can't go near a Home Depot now without having flashbacks.

-Jonesy

Jonesy feeds the homeless this Xmas...

2007-12-26T13:15:00.003-06:00

In doing my part for the community this year, I decided to spend Christmas Day feeding the homeless. Well, okay, true it was government-ordered community service but it's still the same in my eyes, so let's not split hairs here. Anyway, I bounce out of bed bright and early, and after a few chugs of the hair-of-the-eggnog-dog I'm on my way out the door and ready to spread some holiday cheer. I quickly realize it's about 7 degrees outside. To hell with this. I'm not ABOUT to stand outside all day scooping sweet potatoes onto paper plates. I don't care WHAT my parole officer says.

So, I climb into my van and head down the road with the BEST idea in the world.

I pull around the corner and see that the less-privileged have already started lining up in front of the rec center. It's cold outside. No one is happy to be outdoors. The sympathy is tugging at my heart.

I come to a screeching halt in front of the crowd of hungry hobos. I slide the door open and yell out with passion "Hop in f*ckers, we're going to Taco Bell!"

So, there I am cruising down Western Ave with a van-load of Chicago's finest transients. We've got Elvis' "White Christmas" blaring from the stereo and everyone is having a great time. Laughing and singing. A pint of Mint Ripple is shoved in my face. I proudly take a swig and pass it back. This sleigh is rockin', folks.

I yank the van into the Taco Bell drive-thru with authority. Soon, with military precision I'm shouting out orders...

"Stompy wants two soft tacos!" (everyone cheers)

"Milky gots to have a Nacho Bellgrande and a Mountain Dew!" (round of applause)

"Twigs needs a DOUBLE order of Pintos N' Cheese, my friend!" (hoots and hollers)

And I take it upon myself...

"Hell, a round of Meximelts for everyone!" (we are slapping high-fives, someone lights a joint)

I pay the lovely cashier and we're on our way. We drive around for an hour or so while everyone enjoys their meal. You can cut the holiday cheer with a empty beer bottle it's so thick.

Afterwards, I drop all my new friends off at the bus station and we exchange heart-felt goodbyes. A tear streams from my eye, knowing I was able to bring joy to those less fortunate this Xmas.

Total run time: less than two hours.

I'm back at my apartment in just enough time to catch "Christmas Vacation" coming on TBS.

Ahhhhhh. I'm so awesome. I can't WAIT to go to heaven. :-)

-Jonesy

Need your help! I accidently donated my water bong to the Salvation Army!

2007-12-17T13:40:00.003-06:00

So, I was cleaning out some old junk the other day from my apartment. The boxes were really starting to pile up. Around noon that day the doorbell rang. I went to answer and standing on my porch was a young gentleman sporting a green uniform and a high & tight haircut. His name tag read "Lt. Colonel Grover Muhstird - Artillery Commander - U.S. Salvation Army". Out of respect I immediately snapped to attention and we exchanged salutes.

Colonel Muhstird quickly got down to business. He informed me that his platoon was in the area collecting items for "the Army's" Annual Holiday Christmas Drive.

As a proud citizen I told that I did in fact have some items that I wished to donate. And so I started handing him box after box of stuff that I had just recently pulled from the closet.

Proud of my duty to America, I waved goodbye to the Colonel as he continued down my street atop his armored Chrysler Lebaron.

Retreating back into my apartment, I began to realize that I had REALLY just given away quite a large amount of my personal possessions. I really got carried away.

Suddenly, my blood started to run cold as it dawned on me that one of the boxes I had given away contained the love of my life ... a five-foot glass water bong that I had named Chief Jay SmokeThunder

I quickly dash out the door and down the street, but the Salvation Army's convoy had already left the area.

So, I guess what I'm asking is this... if you live near a Salvation Army Surplus Store... can you do me a favor and peek in there and see if my water bong is sitting on one of the shelves. Or, if you happen to be a poor homeless person and they show up one day and knock on your cardboard hut/shelter and unload a huge pile of gifts for you ... can ya just check and see if one of them is Chief Jay SmokeThunder? I'd be willing to exchange for it. Like maybe a sandwich and some crack?

Best wishes this holiday season,

Jonesy

I have no idea who "Shawty" is but she's in every f*cking rap song...

2007-12-10T22:59:00.003-06:00

I live near the West Side of Chicago, so by default I hear alot of the hip-hop. And the rappy guys on the songs are always talking to "Shawty". Is this the most popular girl in the world or what? She's mentioned on almost every single song these days. I mean the fellas must really like her because they are always saying stuff like how they wish she would bounce her ass on the "danceflo mo" and stuff like that. I wish people liked ME that much to put me in all of their musical recordings. I would like to be famous too, ya know. See! Just as I'm typing this a car drives by my apartment window and out of the speakers I hear a dude singing "Hey, Shawty, where you at cuz I wanna slap my (censored) across your face like a whiffleball bat". I mean, is this young lady getting royalties or WHAT? I'm pretty jealous.

-Jonesy

Today, I got into a knife fight with Bryant Gumbel (while I was wearing a bear suit) in downtown Chicago...

2007-12-06T20:37:00.003-06:00

But it's really not that interesting of a story. I won't bore you with the details.

G'night,

Jonesy

Here is my stock reply to those "I’m bored ... so answer a bunch of questions" emails

2007-11-22T15:33:00.003-06:00

Copy and paste my answers and save yourself the email stamp...

-Jonesy

Two Names You Go By:

1. Jonesy

2. Monsignor Slapback Jungleworthy Fontaine, Esq.

Two Things You Are Wearing Right Now:

1. Bike shorts

2. Sombrero

Two Things You Would Want (or have) in a Relationship:

1. The remote

2. the right NOT to wear that awful turtleneck you bought for me ... please.

Two of Your Favorite Things to do:

1. cover homeless people in tinfoil

2. freestyle platform diving

Two Things You Want Very Badly at the Moment:

1. a time machine so I can go back 3 minutes and NOTICE that there is
no toilet paper BEFORE I proceed

2. another Police Academy sequel

Two pets you had/have:

1. there was an old lady that lived in my old building who always
wore a moo-moo and smelled like bacon. Well, she had a cat ...
probably.

2. Phil ... my pet rock

Two things you did last night:

1. downloaded the song "Funkytown" off the internet

2. re-enacted various courtroom scenes from "Law & Order" using my
pillows as jury members and a poster of Vanilla Ice as the "judge"

Person you last talked To:

the operator for the toll-free help line on the back of a Hellman's Mayonaisse jar

Longest car ride:

not a car but... last summer I went to the State Fair and the
operator accidently left me alone on the Gravitron for over an hour

FAVORITE Holiday:

Ash Wednesday because I love seeing the people whose priest got WAY
out of hand applying the smudge to their forehead ... "No no ... you
can hardly tell at all, I promise"

Favorite beverage:

Non-Diet Tab

I received the following letter from People Magazine today...

2007-11-14T15:32:00.003-06:00

TO: Mr. Jones

FROM: Julia Bernard, Executive Assistant to V.P. of Customer Affairs

Dear Mr. Jones,

We want to thank you for your request to be featured in our annual "Sexiest Man Alive" edition. Unfortunately, we have to once again decline your submission of yourself as "Sexiest Man Alive". As we have stated repeatedly to you in years past, the editors of People Magazine tend to bestow the S.M.A. honor to an individual who is both a celebrity in his own right and quite honestly... someone who is sexy. We are also returning the personal photos you sent us and politely decline your offer to use them in this month's photo spread. It has been a long standing policy of People Magazine to refrain from the use of nudity.

Good luck with your future endeavours.

Sincerely,

J. Bernard

-Jonesy

Come on, dammit. Human beings have no business dying in "stampedes"

2007-11-10T15:31:00.003-06:00

It happens every single year... somewhere on this planet .... USUALLY at a Wal-Mart. But it has to finally stop. There is absolutely no reason for another human being to be trampled to death by other shoppers who rush to be the first ones through the door on the year's biggest shopping days. Seriously, think about it for a second. Are we living in a Looney Tunes cartoon? Should "cause of death: crushed by herd of idiots" be something that has to be told to a family when they lose a loved one? Absolutely ridiculous. And I am in no way making light of a serious situation. This is not a joke. Maybe you lost someone dear to you in the infamous "Macy's People Stampede of 2006" or perhaps during the "Radioshack Idiot Round-Up of 2005".

Parents, listen to me. Your spoiled little kid doesn't have to have the new Fondle-Me Grover doll so bad that it's worth the loss of life. Calm down. Take a breath. Teach your child the values of patience. They can't wait. Or better yet ... plan ahead of time ... order your gifts online instead of congregating in a Target parking lot at 4am... sipping coffee... and comparing your level of pathetic with the other parents.

PEOPLE ARE DYING.

No more holiday stampedes!!!

I'm sick and tired of it.

Blessings & Wishes To You and Yours This Holiday Season,

Jonesy

Open Letter #11

2007-11-03T15:30:00.003-05:00

Dear Single Mother On The Bus Yapping Away On Her Cellphone,

If your hyperactive Flaming Hot Cheeto-eating toddler runs past me and grazes my balls with his backpack one more time ... I'm going to punt the fucker out the door at the next stop.

Sincerely,

Jonesy

Apparently if your name is "Cody" you’re supposed to be a cowboy...

2007-11-02T15:29:00.003-05:00

Or "Casey".

Count 'em ...

http://www.prorodeo.org/biographies.aspx?xu=1

-Jonesy

Listening to "Freebird" is a MAJOR commitment.

2007-10-31T15:28:00.003-05:00

I sometimes find myself on the bus lost in my own little iWorld. And then I hear those unmistakable opening chords to Mr. Skynyrd's opus. And I think to myself... I can't do this right now. My stop is coming up and I'm already late for work. I can't NOT listen to that whole damn song. All 22+ minutes in length. (or however long it is ... fuck off, Rainman). And I feel guilty. I feel guilty for jumping ahead to the next song. And it stays with me. All day long. The betrayal. The regret. When will my next opportunity come? My next chance to be free as a bird now. Lord, knows I can't change. Could that have been the last time my ears would ever Ronnie Van Zant's croon? I sure as hell hope not. And to think that I skipped over it only to hear some fucking Smash Mouth song that I KEEP FORGETTING to delete from my ipod. Gods Of Southern Rock... give me another chance.

-Jonesy

9.5 million people in the Chicagoland area ... and a pigeon decides to take a shit on ME

2007-10-19T15:27:00.003-05:00

October 20, 2007

For Immediate Release:

Officials from the U.S. Pigeon Air Force Command are keeping mum about an incident that happened at approximately 14:00 GMT near the intersection of Sheridan Road and Diversey Avenue in Chicago on Friday. Witnesses state that an innocent bystander was struck by a "bunker-busting" pile of bird shit upon his upper left shoulder. The immediate reaction to the bombing by the victim was described as "chaotic" and "pissed off". Police, Fire, and Rescue were on the scene in minutes and cordoned off a two-block area around Ground Zero. No other fatalities have been reported at this time. When investigators were finally able to question the victim, Ryan Jones, 30, he responded with "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Story supplied by Reuters, Inc. 2007

The moment Charlie & Emilio were inspired to write the screenplay for "Men At Work"

2007-10-13T15:10:00.003-05:00

I don't pretend to know everything about Hollywood. But I do understand creativity, motivation, and inspiration. And I also have a pretty good grasp of shitty movies.

There had to be a moment, a particular day when Emilio Estevez and his younger brother Charlie Sheen came up with the idea ... of a feature film comedy ... involving, um, garbage men.

If you aren't familiar. Let me refresh your memory...

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0100135/

I imagine it went something like this:

It's an unseasonably cool autumn day in Los Angeles.

Emilio is at home, slouched on the sofa watching television. He wears his blue hooded sweatshirt from Breakfast Club.

Emilio's housekeeper peeks her head in.

HOUSEKEEPER: Meester Estevez?

EMILIO: Yes, Rosa?

HOUSEKEEPER: Your brother Charlie is here to see you.

EMILIO: Send him in, please.

The housekeeper exits.

Charlie enters soon after. He wears a leather jacket over a white t-shirt just like he did in whatever movie that was.

CHARLIE: Hey, man. How's it going?

They hug.

EMILIO: Not too good to tell you the truth. I just snorted the last of my money from St. Elmo's Fire.

CHARLIE: Tell me about it. Things have been pretty rough for me lately too.

Emilio sighs.

EMILIO: What's happened to us, bro? We used to be on top of the world. Now things are slowly starting to slip away.

CHARLIE: I know it.

Charlie plops down in a chair.

CHARLIE (CONT'D): My agent hasn't been sending me anything worth a damn.

Charlie hops right back up.

CHARLIE (CONT'D): I tell ya, Emilio. I need a hit bad.

EMILIO: Whaddya mean? You had Major League that was a HUGE hit.

CHARLIE: It's not the same. I tell ya ... I should have been in Young Guns II dammit!

EMILIO: But you were killed in the first one!

CHARLIE: It doesn't matter! It still hurts!

Emilio walks over to comfort Charlie.

EMILIO: Come on, Chuck. Sit down and relax. You're letting the pressure get to you.

They sit.

EMILIO: And I'm totally with you, man. We need to sit right here and come up with our own plan. Our own destiny. We can't just sit around and wait for someone to knock on our door. We have to go out there and show them that we still have the goods. Now let's just think.

There is a long awkward silence as they ponder.

Suddenly there is a load noise coming from "outside". It's the sound of garbage truck compressing and then the beeping sound of the truck backing up.

Charlie looks confused.

CHARLIE: What the hell is that?

Emilio is nonchalant.

EMILIO: That's just our garbage men picking up our garbage.

CHARLIE: Hmmph. Now what a job that must be.

Slowly both Charlie and Emilio look up as the brilliant idea comes to them both.

EMILIO: That's it!

CHARLIE: Absolutely!

EMILIO: We could play garbage men!

CHARLIE: It could be a comedy!

EMILIO: There could be murder!

CHARLIE: There could be a set of competing garbage men!

EMILIO: It'll be a gold mine!

CHARLIE: We'll call it Men At Work!

EMILIO: It's practically writing itself!

They embrace and dance a celebratory dance around the room.

The End.

-Jonesy

So, I was caught by my roommate last night...

2007-09-27T15:09:00.003-05:00

as I was rehearsing my re-enactment of the "bike dance" from the movie RAD. In case you aren't familiar...

It was pretty embarrassing. Our kitchen is a MESS.

-Jonesy

Jesus Christ, the Gospel Block Party across the street simply WILL NOT END!!!!

2007-09-23T15:08:00.003-05:00

There has been a church fundraiser/block party going on outside my apartment for the past 4 days. God has found his way of punishing me... and it's a good one. From sun up to sun down on every single day since last Thursday there has been a steady muffled supply of horrendous music rattling my windows. I mean, it literally hasn't stopped. All day and all night. I feel like a laboratory rat whose being monitored secretly by the government. Surely, this is it ... this is how we invade Iran... by piping in live amateur gospel carnival music. They would be laying down their arms within days. Crying. Begging for your mercy. Please. Please make it stop.

-Jonesy

Jonesy reviews "Spirit" - Southwest Airline’s Inflight Magazine

2007-08-30T15:04:00.003-05:00

Like most everyone else... I get bubbly and excited when I know I'm about to get on an airplane. It's not because I know in just a few minutes I'm going to be stretched out in unbelievable comfort and breathing the fresh air flowing through your typical 737 cabin... but rather that I'm finally going to be reunited with the love of my life ... the periodical wonder that is "Spirit Magazine". The New Yorker can kiss my ass. THIS, my friends, is great writing. A literary blowjob for the brain. Let's get started...

(pg 23) - Hey, look at this! It's a list of America's Greatest Steakhouses! This is one of my favorite editorial pieces of all time. It's always good to know where I can get a decent ribeye next time I'm in Sandusky.

(pgs 27,28,34,46,55,58) - Did you know Las Vegas has hotels AND casinos???? As well as the budget to hijack an entire magazine with their advertisements? Seriously, who the FUCK is Danny Gans and why should I NOT want to kick his turtle-neck wearing ass?

(pg 65) - Great, some asshole has already started the crossword puzzle and in purple ink too. "famous Texas landmark". This jerkwad put down "SIX FLAGS".

(pg 78) - I'm glad to see that Ginger Ale has lasted this long on the drink list. It's an airline standard. It goes great with a $5 whiskey that comes the same size as a finger nail polish bottle.

So, that's about it for the interesting stuff. There were some article in there about time-shares and apple-picking in Michigan. But who really fucking cares?

Next week...

I review whatever document the guy sitting next to me has on his laptop. Looks like a sales report or something. He keeps catching me looking...

-Jonesy

Do you think the people at work notice that my shirt is 2 sizes too small?

2007-08-14T15:03:00.003-05:00

Okay, so I recently moved apartments and of course during that process my entire laundry rhythm and routine got thrown way off its flightplan. So as the days go by and my laziness shows its ugly face... I'm left with very few clothing options for my daily life.

This morning I am rifling through boxes trying to find something ANYTHING that resembles a shirt. I find one. It kinda looks familiar but the mood is definitely awkward between us. Do I know you?

I confidently throw my arms into this baby. Not bad so far. I bring the two sides together ... uh oh. We're about 4-5 inches off target. As I'm pulling, stretching, and clawing ... I can literally hear the fabric fibers screaming as if being run through a medieval torture device. I'm sorry, little buddies.

I'm now on my bed. Tossing and turning with every ounce of power I can muster. Finally, I get the buttons to hold. Well, most of them. One button buckles under the torque and shoots across the room smashing a priceless ming vase from Target.

With the aid of a portable oxygen machine, I manage to catch my breath and make it downstairs to catch my bus. By this point things are going okay. The humidity is allowing for some decent stretchability. The folks on the bus don't seem to notice.

When I get to work ... things start getting a little hairy. Wouldn't you know it I forget that we have some very important clients in the office today. I spend a good deal of my morning just rolling around the office from the safety of my desk chair. Making every attempt not to stand up and display my attire that now has the comfort-level of Saran Wrap.

The rest of my day goes smoothly. Until at the very end when my boss asks me to run something across the street to the bank. Ugh! It would be a trip to the bank ... where the tellers are all gorgeous and who most likely prefer dudes that don't appear to get their clothing from Babys R Us.

After some lamaze breathing outside the bank... I'm soon able to take in enough oxygen to enter and make my transaction. I soon realize that keeping your gut sucked in for any period over two minutes will automatically require the use of every single muscle in your body. I smile at the cute teller and hand her my deposit slips. She makes small talk but I can only manage to smile and nod occasionally as I feel my face turning purple. My abdomen is now shaking uncontrollably in a epileptic rage as it fights to contain years of chicken wings and kool-aid. "OH MY GOD, lady, please stop talking so I can leave" is all I'm thinking at this point. Okay. Good-bye. Yes you have a good afternoon too...

Ahhhhhhh. I'm out the door. Free at last. My guy falls back into place like a sack of potatoes. I pause for a cigarette. Check my pockets....

FUUUUUUUUUCK. She forgot my deposit receipt....

-Jonesy

Reason #37 Why I'm Still Single - Baby Names

2007-06-26T15:02:00.003-05:00

(Disclaimer: this post is bound to offend at least one person. Though it's not your fault, it's your parents)

I love kids. I look forward to having children of my own some day soon. But I will be damned if my kids are going to end up with a shitty name.

In the past ... biblical names were all the rage. John, Jacob, Mary, Barrabas...

Now things have changed. Yuppie America is fighting over your Codys, Emmas, Hannahs, Sophies, Tyler, Kyler, Smyler, Isabella, Madison, Evan Michael Thomas Baxter.

Give me a fucking break.

What happened to naming your kid something with a little courage. A little heart. A little history. Naming your child has now become like shopping for a Land Rover. Trying to be different, but ending up being just like everyone else. Why not have your children forever be know as an extension of who you are... both physically and historically. Your spawn is a part of you. Their lives are molded by your upbringing.

So, am I willing to put my money where my mouth is? I most certainly. My children will be named the following:

1) Fletch
2) Nerf
3) Pour Some Sugar On Me

-Jonesy

Classical radio station DJs are assholes.

2007-06-21T15:01:00.003-05:00

So, I'm cranking along this morning to my favorite classical radio station. Feeling the groove, getting shit done at work. I think to myself "I could totally use some Haydn to get me through until lunch break". I call up the radio station. First, I'm put on hold. Okay, fine. There are more people out there just like me. I can live with that. So after about a 10-12 minute wait. The guy finally answers and is like "Heeeeey, thanks for calling WNPP 88.3 .... yourrrrr'e talkin' to Symphony Steve Hardwell ... Chicago's Classiest Classical Music Station DJ ... what would you like to hear???" I said I would like to hear something in a G Major ... how about Violin Concerto No. 4?

And this fuckwad totally ignores me and starts spouting shit about how I won two free tickets to some car wash grand opening and five minutes inside The Dollar Bill Typhoon Wind Machine.

I said, "Look, asshole, take my request or stop wasting my time". "It's bad enough you've already played Mozart's 40th Symphony twice this morning ... which we all know is the fucking Switchfoot ballad of classical music ... god-awful and overplayed.

And then he says "sounds like someone is having a bad day" and then plays this audio clip of Homer Simpson yelling about something followed by what I think was either a foghorn or whoopee cushion.

So, I hung up and kicked my computer across the room.

-Jonesy

No one's had a shittier life than the flavor Lemon...

2007-05-22T15:00:00.003-05:00

As the days grow longer I quickly find my blank stares out the window a little uneventful. So, today I decided to focus my glazed eyes on the slowly-depleting bowl of hard candy here in my office. I don't eat the candy really. Not much of a fan, so I can safely rule myself out as a variable here... But seriously have we as adults not outgrown the phase of passing over the lemon-flavored candy in favor of the more desirable hues? I'll admit. It would be tough to knock cherry/strawberry of it's perch atop the flavor hierarchy. It's enjoyed a long, glorious reign as #1. Grape MAY have had a nice run in the 1980s. Maybe it was the cocaine. I'm not sure. Orange, god bless it, always a noble contender but let's face it... it's really the Canada of the flavor world ... we often forget it's even there. And there sits poor ol' lemon.

Why do manufactureres even bother churning this shittier Lysol replicant out of it's factories? It's always the last chosen. Like the fat blind kid at basketball camp. Put it out of its misery, please. Anything lemon is destined to remain at the bottom of the candy bowl for eternity until it becomes a stale, impenetrable nugget of shame.

Who in Washington is leading the lemon lobby? How hard is it to phase it out for something more favorable like ....kiwi. Anything for christ sakes.

But, alas, no. Lemon will remain a part of the candy spectrum for years to come. Life's a bitch. Don't even get me started on banana.

-Jonesy

When you fart on a public bus...you're putting us all in danger.

2007-04-05T15:00:00.003-05:00

It never fails. At least once a week I'm subjected to someone's rectal terrorism during my commute to or from work. Look, man, this shit is crowded. We are all cramped, impatient, and a little on edge. Just hold that monster at bay, please. I beg you.

Why am I so pissed? Simple. Because no matter what... everyone always looks to me as if I'm the culprit. Because I'm a big guy. I have enough anxiety as it is and now I have to be judged in silence for something I know very well I didn't do yet I can't be vocal in my own defense. I have to sit there and pretend like I notice nothing even though I know very well why everyone is shifting uncomfortably in their seats. All because a waft of Satan himself has graced their nostrils.

And there you are... snickering in the corner ... you skinny, tofu-eating gastrointestinal nightmare.

Shame on you.

-Jonesy

I guess it's time to explain my phobia of old ladies...

2007-02-20T14:56:00.003-06:00

I have mentioned this to a few people in the past and, of course, they always think I'm joking. But it's true. I am scared shitless of little old ladies.

First let me define. Old lady to me means over 70 years of age. Sometimes younger but rarely.

My reason is simple. Old ladies can be two extremes. First, they can be the nicest sweetest angels in the world. Or they can be the most bitter venom-spewing evil hags in the world.

Please before the sexist accusations fly... let me explain by a little compare and contrast.

Crabby old MEN are hilarious. Long a cliched character of the crusty old man who sits on his porch waving his cane and shouting at the rascal neighbor kids to get off his lawn.

But the evil old lady is more sinister. She lies dormant most of the time. Small and frail, wrapped in her shawl during those crispy August summer days. But once she strikes... all hell breaks loose. Setting off an old lady tantrum one can be subjected to a vicious tirade of scratching, clawing, profanity, lashes from strands of pearls, strangulation by way of hair netting, and handbag-induced head trauma.

All of this simply because Walgreen's ran out of her brand of calcium ... or something else so pathetically mundane.

I have tried to reason with them. But my words can't get past their reeking odor of Play-Doh.

So, now I avoid them. I will move to the other side of the street. I will move to the back of the bus. I will avoid that aisle in the grocery. All in an attempt to avoid the old ladies.

They are just fucking mean.

I miss you, grandma, but you can blame the others.

-Jonesy

1/17/07...

2007-01-18T14:55:00.003-06:00

Okay here goes. Jonesy's Night 1/17/2007.

I go have a few drinks after work with some co-workers. I'm a little
tipsy by the time I make it home around 7:30pm.

I'm starving. So I order a BBQ sandwich from Hecky's (of all places)

Netflix came in the mail. Finally I get to see Talledega Nights. Life is good.

Come 8:30pm. Been an hour. Where the hell is my food?

Around 8:45pm I smell a weird burning plastic smell. I think the guys
downstairs must be farting around in the kitchen. I think I hear a
smoke detector going off but can't be certain.

8:55pm. Is that a fire truck on my street? They go into the
building next door and leave after like 5-10 minutes. Probably some
girl burnt her Lean Cuisine.

9:00pm. So, that was a fun little distraction. Where in the name of
Allah is my fucking sandwich??

9:05pm. I get a phone call. Strange number. I bet this is my
delivery guy. Lost or something. I am right. Problem is he
doesn't speak ONE SYLLABLE of English. He is repeating some
phrase over and over again but I can't make it out. All I do is yell
back (you're supposed to yell, right?) my address over and over. Are
you downstairs? I ask. We get nowhere. So I wait for the doorbell
to ring. Nothing. I go downstairs and check the front porch.
Nothing.

9:15pm. Another phone call from delivery guy. We do the same dance.
Our language barrier is like the fucking Great Wall Of China.

9:17pm. I call Hecky's and explain to them that I think their
delivery guy is trying to call me. Perhaps he is lost? I am not
angry I just want to make sure he finds my place. I mean, it's pretty
cold outside. They explain to me that he doesn't speak a word of
English OR understand a word of English. Great. I wait...

9:20pm. He calls back again. This time I spring to action. I have
to keep him on the phone and talking long enough in gibberish (to me
at least) so I can TRACK HIM DOWN OUTSIDE BY THE SOUND OF HIS VOICE.

Did I mention I am not sober at all at this point?

I step outside on the porch and I swear this guy darts over to me like
Jackie Chan on crack.

He is super nice and apologetic. I tell him it's no problem, welcomed
him to our country and tipped him well for his effort.

The sandwich was great ... Talledega Nights, eh, not so much.

-Jonesy

Can someone please explain to me what Mountain Glacier smells like?

2007-01-09T14:54:00.003-06:00

Look, it's hard enough for a guy to spend more than a comfortable 37 seconds browsing the aisles of ANY drugstore... so why must companies make it so damn hard for us to choose a deodorant scent?

Spring Breeze? Arctic Blast? Sport??? How the fuck is "Sport" considered an adjective that describes a smell?

So, I've done the research and here are my findings. Each scent is followed by it's ideal situational usage.

Fresh = perfect scent for those "morning afters" when you wake up hungover at 8:17AM with an important meeting scheduled downtown for 8:30AM. No time to shower.

Cool Blast = excellent choice for those desperate evenings out on the town when you are determined to hook up at all costs. So horny you'd hump a mailbox.

Ocean Surf = a nice middle-of-the-road standby scent. plain and boring like everything else about your earthly existence

Unscented = when you just don't give a fuck any more. Life isn't worth it. who cares if you smell like an elderly immigrant's diaper

Next week, my article ... "Cologne: The Cute Counter Girl Lied To You...You Smell Like Ass"

-Jonesy

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

2006-12-19T14:53:00.000-06:00

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?

2006-10-31T14:51:00.003-06:00

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

2006-10-20T14:49:00.003-05:00

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

2006-10-11T14:51:00.003-05:00

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?

2006-09-07T14:47:00.003-05:00

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...

2006-08-21T14:45:00.003-05:00

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

2006-07-24T14:44:00.003-05:00

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?

2006-07-12T14:41:00.003-05:00

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...

2006-06-01T14:28:00.004-05:00

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

2006-04-28T14:27:00.003-05:00

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

2006-04-27T14:26:00.003-05:00

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

2006-04-17T14:25:00.003-05:00

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

2006-04-12T14:24:00.003-05:00

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

2006-04-10T14:21:00.003-05:00

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

2006-04-08T14:20:00.003-05:00

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

2006-04-07T14:18:00.003-05:00

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

2006-04-06T14:17:00.003-05:00

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"

2006-03-26T14:15:00.003-06:00

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