Angry Letters, part III: My beef with your angus

I prefer to buy groceries that do not suck.

The third entry to my series of angry letters was sparked by incredibly disappointing purchases made at Jewels, an overpriced supermarket chain in the Midwest.  After two meals were ruined, I was seething with anger and decided to write about my experiences.

This message was emailed to Craig Herkert, Chief Operating Officers of SuperValu, the parent company that owns Jewels.  As always, in the unlikely event that Mr. Herkert responds, I will post his response. 

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There is no such thing as an extreme condom

Remember the Aerosmith song Livin’ on the Edge?

Well, living on the edge is for pussies.  The term “the edge” evokes the concept of a boundary, so the phrase suggests behavior that flirts with a legal or safety limit. 

Using this definition, examples of “living on the edge” would include paying one’s cell phone bill one day before service was disconnected, driving at the speed limit or falling asleep without brushing and flossing first. 

I do not live on the edge.  In fact, I absolutely obliterate the edge and refuse to acknowledge its existence. 

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Jesus and friends versus the big, bad airport

Eminent domain is a pretty fucking brutal concept.

For those of you who were asleep, stoned or absent during eight-grade social studies class, I will explain.  Eminent domain grants governments the right to seize private property against the owner’s consent, as long as the property will be used to benefit the general public.

While property owners are compensated for their loss, this is an excellent example of the government flexing its muscle like one of the tanned Italian lads on Jersey Shore.

Property may be claimed for a variety of reasons, for example, to build highways, railroad, infrastructure, or a statue of Barack Obama. 

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Introducing new, blunt-smoking douchebag neighbors

I write this post from the Heart of Italy.

Gondolas are nowhere in sight.  The Vatican is thousands of miles away.  And I cannot recall the last time a mustachioed man walked by carrying a paper bag with baguettes poking out of the top.

I am at my apartment in Chicago.

In late October, I moved into a new apartment located in the Pilsen neighborhood on Chicago’s near south side.  My particular borough is known as “The Heart of Italy.”  The small community is known for a stretch of Italian restaurants along Oakley Avenue, and was once a popular destination for Italian immigrants.

(Many of my friends and coworkers view my move to the south side as quite fitting.  In fact, many acquaintances have guessed that I am from the south side, due to my thick Chicago accent.  One of my college teachers even asked if I was from Bridgeport, home of Mayor Richard Daley.  In addition, I am a White Sox fan who spent the better part of my life among Cubs Kool-Aid drinkers on the north side.   In many ways, moving south of Madison Avenue was a foregone conclusion.)

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Tiger Woods’ questionable use of his penis

I am thoroughly enjoying witnessing the Tiger Woods saga unfold.

This may seem a bit hypocritical, as I recently decried celebrity news outlets for continually churning out mindless drivel.  I make an exception for the tales of Woods’ philandering, as two captivating storylines have been brought to the forefront by the burgeoning fleet of women that have taken turns serving as the golfer’s personal semen dumpster.

Thanks to Rachel Uchitel and her fellow skanks, America has been given a behind-the-scenes look into the sex lives of rich and powerful men.  Celebrities like Tiger hire experienced pussy wranglers to gather a collection of young dames eager for their chance to mount a famous penis.  The ladies are treated to top-shelf liquor and a fun night out, and the lucky lad gets to pick the gal (or gals) that he will bed.

The women are treated like cattle in this extremely organized and businesslike approach to sex.  It is quite similar to high-end restaurants that allow you to pick your lobster from a tank, or your preferred cut of porterhouse from a silver platter. 

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Movie review: Precious was fucking depressing

There are some movies that I would not watch if I were single.

Precious: Based on the Novel “Push” by Sapphire is one such movie.  I tend to prefer comedies or movies with explosions and gunplay.  When the two elements are combined, I am riveted.  Typically, I am not a fan of straight-drama movies, particularly if the film did well at Sundance and critics are raving about it.

One the country has reached a consensus that a dramatic movie is a “must-see,” I tune it out entirely.  Perhaps this makes me a tad bit less cultured, but the contrarian in me appreciates the awestruck and confounded look on people’s faces when I explain that I never saw Million Dollar Baby or Slumdog Millionare.

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Sarah Jessica Parker, attention whorse

I am not one for celebrity worship.

I find the mundane gossip reported by TMZ and Perez Hilton to be quite uninteresting.  I am not concerned about the latest litter that Octomom has whelped, Brad and Angelina’s formidable army of young foreigners or the latest Vegas vixen to proclaim that she once served as the warm and moist fuck-socket for Tiger Woods’ talented seed. 

Unfortunately, boqueen has a fleeting interest in such affairs, so I occasionally find myself sitting on the couch as the blaring picture box dishes out the latest Hollywood “news.”  In such situations, I attempt to shut down brain activity to prevent accidental absorption of the ceaseless drivel.  My attempts are typically futile, which explains why wretched words such as “Kardashian” and “Gosselin” have penetrated my skull and become a part of my lexicon. 

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Top five reasons why I hate Notre Dame

Hate is such a strong word.  At times, it isn’t strong enough.

Last spring, I chronicled ten different reasons that explain my contempt for the Chicago Cubs.  I noted that I merely dislike most rival teams, and that there are few teams that I truly hate, aside from the Cubs.

The Notre Dame Fighting Irish are worthy of such scorn.  If I were to summon any more energy to apply towards my hatred of the Irish, I would surely perish from extreme physical exhaustion.

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bokeen’s ban on bad football

Thanksgiving is a time to express gratitude for all that we are blessed with as Americans, though I feel it is the perfect opportunity to complain about things that anger me. 

In many ways, Thanksgiving is the consummate American holiday, steeped in rich tradition.  The first Thanksgiving was celebrated in the early 1600s.  Legend has it that the Pilgrims and American Indians set aside their differences and shared a late autumn feast.  The Injuns brought turkey.  The Pilgrims brought corn.  The Injuns called the corn “maize.”  Everyone laughed, appreciating the humor of the cultural shock, much like the movie Coming to America.  All was warm and fuzzy.

In subsequent years, the Pilgrims would plunder the Injuns’ land, infect them with exotic European diseases, rape their women, relocate them onto tiny reservations and destroy the pristine landscape of their home.  Today, the land the Injuns once called home has been replaced by sprawling mini-malls anchored with Walmart and Starbucks locations.  The few Injuns remaining were compensated with licenses to run casinos.  As a white man, I realize that this is the price of progress.

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Running in a marathon is a symptom of mental illness

Each year, thousands of developmentally-disabled individuals descend on downtown Chicago to compete in a grueling athletic competition requiring remarkable levels of strength and endurance. 

I am referring to the Chicago Marathon. 

More than 45,000 runners participated in today’s race.  The marathon’s route begins downtown and took runners through the North Side, West Loop and South Side, past thousands of cheering spectators.  The annual race, originally dubbed “Mayor Daley’s Marathon,” began in 1977.  In subsequent years, the marathon grew into a massive autumn spectacle for fans and a contemptible nuisance for Chicago commuters. 

Fortunately, the traffic congestion brought on by the marathon is no bother to me, as I have a developed a ritual for the Chicago Marathon.  Each year, as thousands of runners take to the streets, I lock all of my doors and board my windows.  Once all entrances to my apartment are secure, I crouch in a corner, nervously clutching my sawed-off shotgun. 

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