Bottled water is for pussies

Few things are more emblematic of American decadence than our affinity for bottled water.

More than 884 million people – nearly three times the population of United States – do not have access to clean drinking water.  Meanwhile, the vast majority of Americans have a healthy and inexpensives source of water in their kitchens.  We pompously take this fact for or granted, insisting on spending an ungodly amount of money on bottled water.

While hundreds of millions of people struggle to live without basic natural resources, we indulge in expensive bottles of water that allegedly come from a spring or another picturesque natural location.  Then, we stroke our environmentalist sensibilities by recycling the plastic bottles.  This is our idea of making the world a better place. 

This is not to say that bottled water does not have a value in certain contexts.  For example, if you live in an impoverished third-world country such as Somalia, Afghanistan or Mexico, I would strongly suggest that you drink bottled water.

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Review of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue

Last week, the 46th annual edition of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue hit newsstands, and I do not understand why. 

The magazine is an antiquated relic of a bygone era, much like landline telephones, newspapers and the Republican Party.  It is a charming but obsolete reminder of a simpler time. 

The first swimsuit issue, published in 1946, was designed as a tasteful masturbatory aide and a means to drive magazine sales during the slow winter months.  In the following decades, the magazine’s impact was profound.  It initiated an era of new supermodels and made bulimia stylish.  Its success provided massive amounts of revenue for the magazine’s publisher and the tanning industry. 

Today, the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue seems completely unnecessary.  We live in an era where the Interwebs are everywhere, with wireless connections in the home, office, countless coffee shops and McDonalds locations.  Smartphones have become ubiquitous, providing users with portable access to the Freeway of Super Information. 

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I hate when children act all growed up, part II

This is part two of my rant about the deplorable behavior of disease-carrying proto-humans, which you might refer to as “children.” Click here to read part one.

Immediately after finishing work, I hurry to the local grocery store.  It is important that I finish my shopping trip as quickly as possible.  I have a small window of time to purchase a few items and return home, as parking spots in my neighborhood are very difficult to find after about 6 p.m.

As a man, I am completely inept in the art of grocery shopping.  Instead of coordinating large shopping trips, I buy individual items as needed, making several trips to the store each week.

My shopping list is quite short and comprised primarily of liquids which are a staple of my kitchen: white wine for boqueen, beer for my alcohol fix and Coca-Cola for my caffeine fix.   I also need portabella mushrooms, corn syrup and Brillo pads. 

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I hate when children act all growed up, part I

I hate children.

I like to consider myself an equal-opportunity child hater.  I hate white children, black children, light children and fat children.  I hate Mexican children, Aztecan children, Asian children and Haitian children.  I hate infants, toddlers, adolescents and those who are pubescent.

Children have an adverse effect on my quality of life.  These proto-humans are ill-equipped to make a positive contribution to society, on account of their squeaky voices and stumpy limbs. 

I make an exception for my nieces and nephew.  Lil bokeen and his siblings are model citizens, the Future of America.  However, their peers are worthless, whiny shitbags that need to die immediately. 

To me, children are utterly repulsive creatures when they are engaging in their normal, daily activities, such as watching Spongebob Squarepants or arranging an illicit sexual rendezvous with an adult using the Interwebs.  When children attempt to engage in adult activities, they become reprehensible little characters worthy of the CIA’s most harsh torture tactics.

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I’m not with Coco: The state of late night television

I am not a fan of Conan O’Brien.

Surely, my opinion will prove to be unpopular in light of the popular “I’m with Coco” social media campaign.  I will concede that Conan is one of the more talented individuals in the late night talk show business. 

However, since Conan’s field is a wretched morass, virtually devoid of discernable talent, this a backhanded compliment at best.  In many ways, the title of “Most Talented Late Night Talk Show Host” is akin to “World’s Tallest Midget,” “Most Honest Politician,” or “Most Celibate Catholic Priest.” 

For over two weeks, the Interwebs and old fashioned media outlets have been atwitter with news and commentary about the impending shake up of NBC’s late night lineup.  I found the contractual ménage à trios between Jay Leno, Conan O’Brien and NBC Universal President Jeff Zucker incredibly compelling.  In fact, I have changed my browser’s start page to TMZ.com, and I click “refresh” between nine and 215 times each day, eagerly anticipating the next twist in this amazing storyline.  My carpal tunnel is acting up. 

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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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