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. 

Eminent domain is firmly entrenched in American life, outlined in the “Takings Clause” of the Constitution.  Surprisingly, the same document that establishes a set of checks and balances between the three branches of government, and grants me the right to liberally use awesome phrases like “fuck-socket,” “cunt-face” and “impeach the fuck-socket, cunt-faced President, whoever that is right now.” It also allows the government to steal my property for their own uses.

Consider the implications of such a heavy-handed law.  One day, you are sitting on a beanbag in your mother’s basement playing Nintendo 64.  The next day, you are fucking homeless and a Starbucks has been erected in the same place where you used to watch reruns of Perfect Strangers.  Remember where your parent’s wedding picture used to hang?  Cream and sugar can be found there now. 

Of course, courts will rationalize this.  “Fuck your childhood memories,” a judge will declare.  “This new strip mall stimulates the local economy and creates jobs.  Plus, it’s got a Jimmy Johns.”

It is startling to realize that every one of us is a disposable pawn and our entire livelihood can be taken away at the behest of a hack lawyer that was fortunate enough to be elected into office.  This proves, beyond a doubt, that we are all slaves to the government – even white people.  That is a travesty.

::

The runway layout at O’Hare was designed by famed civil engineer Joe Planesgoncrash.

Eminent domain has played a critical role in plans to expand Chicago’s O’Hare Airport.  Construction is currently underway on the plan, which calls for the reconfiguring the airport’s chaotic patchwork of runways, resulting in a 60% increase in capacity, according to the city’s estimates.

The plans have been highly controversial, spawning seemingly ceaseless political debate and litigation.  Mayor Richard Daley (D-Machine) is in favor of modernizing the airport, as a means to generate lucrative contracts for his chums in the construction industry and various other business interests that have propped up his inept ass for decades.  Opponents of the plan call for the construction of a new airport in the suburbs.  These individuals object to the displacement of thousands of businesses and homes, along with increased congestion in the region.

The most vocal resistance to the plans has come from the suburbs that border the airport, including Bensenville and Des Plaines.  The expansion required these suburbs to surrender large swaths of land to the City of Chicago.

Their efforts ultimately proved to be futile.  Judges repeatedly ruled in favor of the Chicago Machine.  Appeals failed.  Despite their efforts, the expansion of O’Hare Airport was inevitable. 

The last significant barrier to the plans was eliminated in November when the Bensenville accepted a settlement to end their opposition.  In return, the village received a paltry payoff of $16 million, along with the City of Chicago’s pledge to provide fund the purchase of sound-resistant windows for residents. 

The expansion of the airport has drastically transformed the small suburb.  The east side of the village is a ghost town of sorts, as hundreds of homes and dozens businesses have been abandoned to make way for Daley’s grand plan. 

::

With the most formidable challenges to O’Hare expansion either paid off or litigated into oblivion, the opponents that now stand in the way of the plan are inferior foes by comparison. 

Two weeks ago, proponents of the plan overcame one of these pathetic challengers.

::

St. Johannes Cemetery is located uncomfortably close to the airport and in the path of a potential new runway.  The 6.3-acre cemetery houses 900 corpses and was built in the 19th century, long before the advent of new-fangled flying machines.

On December 18, a DuPage County judge ruled that the City of Chicago could claim the cemetery’s land under eminent domain laws.  The Chicago Department of Aviation will foot the bill for relocating wooden boxes full of decomposed remains.

St. John’s United Church of Christ in Bensenville owns the cemetery.  In legal filings, the church argued that the graves should “remain undisturbed until the day of resurrection of Jesus Christ,” per the religious beliefs of those buried at the cemetery.

I fail to understand why a presumably competent lawyer would chose to include such an absurd argument in a court document. 

::

Normally, I am adamantly opposed to the use of eminent domain laws. However, he wording of the church’s argument left the judge no choice other than to rule in favor of the City of Chicago.

Guess who’s back…back again.

The American judicial system is designed to consider matters of fact.  Jesus’ resurrection is the ultimate example of a “sliding deadline.”  No one can pinpoint the exact date or time that the elusive Christ-man will come back.  In fact, no one is certain if the event will actually occur.  For a judge, setting a timeline based upon Christ’s resurrection would be similar to ruling that O’Hare expansion could proceed “when Dick Cheney wins the Nobel Peace Prize.”

Likewise, the legal brief asked the judge to consider the religious beliefs of those buried in the cemetery.  Essentially, the judge had to weight the will of corpses – dead people that haven’t even become zombies yet – against the interests of the Chicagoland community and international travelers.

In summary, the infantile argument by St. John’s United Church of Christ begged the judge to consider the preference of dead people and wait for a potentially fictitious character to come back to life before allowing the O’Hare expansion plans to continue. 

I can understand Judge Hollis Webster’s decision.  Faced with the burden the separation of church and state as granted by the First Amendment, he decided to rule against a part basing their legal argument upon religion, or as viewed by objective parties, mythology.

Eminent domain is a bitch.  I do feel bad for the folks at St. John’s, and the families of those buried at the cemetery.  

Now move those boxes full of smelly corpses so that we can make a runway. 

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.)

Several factors contributed to my decision to move to The Heart of Italy.  As I have noted before, I was disillusioned by the performance of the corporate management of my previous apartment complex.  My new apartment is conveniently located about 15 minutes away from my downtown office and is a short walk to the train.  Most importantly, the move put me within one mile of boqueen’s apartment.

boqueen and I have been together for a nearly a year.  For the first few months, it felt like a long-distance relationship.  I lived more than 50 miles away, and the hour long drive quickly became a nuisance.  This was further exasperated by the fact that boqueen is an urbanite who relies primarily on cabs and public transportation; she did not own a car until about a week ago. 

At times, seeing each other was a complete pain in the ass, requiring hours of planning and packing and a half a tank of gas.  I decided to remedy the situation by moving much closer to her, and she eventually moved in.  Now, we enjoy all of the trappings of “living in sin,” including sharing the cost of utilities and engaging in steamy premarital sex. 

::

Searching for apartments seemed like an epic task.  Moving is an arduous task that I simply dread, so I procrastinated as long as possible.  Three weeks before my lease expired, I combed Craigslist and strolled through prospective neighborhoods, scanning for black and orange “FOR RENT” signs.

The apartment-hunting process is a blur to me now.  Over the course of five days, I looked at ten different apartments on the south side.  Some were in good neighborhoods, while others were located in the ghetto.  Many of the apartments were dirty and unkempt and a few were in respectable condition. 

Apartment hunting taught me a valuable lesson: rental units on the south side are far less expensive than on the north side.  My new apartment has two small bedrooms, a large kitchen and a living room that is cozy but not cramped.  I pay a meager $700 in rent; an apartment of the same size in neighborhoods with dense hipster populations such as Lakeview, Lincoln Park or even Logan Square would easily cost twice as much.

The hipsters will never learn the error of their ways.  Regardless, I am happy to live in a relatively hipster-free zone, as hipsters are afraid of brown people.  Ironically, the population of “The Heart of Italiy” is largely Hispanic. 

(I will make no apologies for pointing out this irony, as I poked fun at white folk’s apprehension to minority neighborhoods in great detail over six months ago.)

I am quite pleased with my choice of neighborhood.  Despite being located moments away from downtown, the area does not suffer from the congestion and gross overpopulation found on the north and near west side.  Traffic is virtually a non-issue, and free parking is relatively ample.  At times, my small neighborhood possesses the quiet tranquility of the suburbs, despite the fact that Willis (nee: Sears) Tower looms ominously on the skyline. 

I live in a three-flat, which is quite a change from the sprawling apartment complex with hundreds of units that I was accustomed to. 

Living in a massive complex offers one quite a degree of anonymity.  When surrounded by hundreds of people, it can be difficult to distinguish neighbors from one another and remember names.  During my year in the apartment complex, I befriended one neighbor, and ancient lady named Ellen.  I would encounter Ellen quite often as she would drag her blind and deaf pug across the sidewalk so the diseased animal could evacuate its bowels.  Ellen was a nice old broad.

I appreciated the anonymity because, in general, I hate people.  While I am a generally affable person, I prefer not to interact with my neighbors.  I suppose that this is a byproduct of growing up in a highly dysfunctional household where my parents would pass judgment upon the neighbors while being terrified of being judged by the neighbors for their loud, erratic and generally fucking insane behavior. 

Renting an apartment in a three-flat does not afford such luxuries.  My neighbors and I live directly on top of one another.  As boqueen and I alternately argue and fuck, they are privy to every moment, due to the lack of sound-dampening qualities in cheap building materials.  We handle one another’s mail and see each other while taking out the garbage.  Regrettably, I am forced to interact with these morose bastards, for fear of being rightfully labeled a douchebag and cast aside like a leper serial killer with a creepy wandering eye.

I live in on the top level of the three flat because, if history has taught us anything it is that the white man always comes out on top. 

Directly below me is a nice Hispanic lady named Anjelica.  She pronounces the “J” in her name with an “H” sound, which is something that my cracker-ass tounge struggles with mightily.  As far as I can tell, Angelica has one or more children and a nice boyfriend with a moustache, and she is quite family-oriented. 

Angelica recently gave us hand-me-down toys for my niece and nephew.  This was a nice gesture, despite the fact that it was clearly easier to hand the trinkets to boqueen than walk them an additional fifty feet to the garbage can in the alley.  boqueen suggested that I bake cookies for Angelica and her family, which I am in favor of, as the average recipe for cookies produces between 40 and 60 of the scrumptious bastards.  I plan on baking up a batch soon, and I will gladly hand off some of the delicious confections to a neighbor, lest boqueen and I become fat.

An indeterminable number of Mexicans live in the basement unit.  While empirical evidence indicates that, at very least, a trashy woman and her wannabe thug son live in the basement, there is quite a bit of traffic downstairs.  I would estimate that between three and 17 people live in the basement unit of the building.

While the scummy lady is the leaseholder, her son is the most prominent resident of “Unit BSMT.”  He and his social group have penchant for standing on the sidewalk in oversized clothing and referring to one another as “nigger.”

That’s more like it.

(The use of the word “nigger” is, understandably, a highly contentious topic.  Even two of the most famous colored people in the world, Oprah and Jay-Z, disagree on the subject.  Regardless, under no circumstances do non-blacks have the right to use the word, particularly in casual conversation.  Being a member of a minority group does not offer one the privilege to use all racial slurs with impunity.  It seems to suggest that Latinos endured the same hardships as Blacks in America, which is fucking absurd.  I respectfully request that all Mexican refrain from using the word “nigger” and finish mowing my lawn.)

I believe that the boy is between ages 14 and 17.  This estimation is based upon his inability to communicate in coherent adult sentences and the patchy hair that resides upon his face. 

While the basement of my unit is chock full of degenerates, I am not one to pass judgment.  After all, I am a self-proclaimed douchebag, so who am I to judge?

However, some of the living habits of the folks in “Unit BSMT” have become bothersome.

::

I would like to preface the next few paragraphs by admitting that I was once a regular marijuana smoker.  Actually, referring to myself as a “regular marijuana smoker” is a bit of an understatement; I was a full-blown pothead during my college years.  Smoking up was a part of my daily regimen.  I would get high before I went to work or to school.   I would puff a quick bowl before and after meals, a few times before bed and prior to any encounter with a family member.  My point is that I am a bona fide expert in pot-related matters.

What a buzzkill!

(Remember how depressing September 11th was?  Imagine watching the second plane hit the World Trade Center while completely stoned.  At work.  It was a bummer, to say the least.) 

I moved into my new apartment on a Sunday afternoon.  boqueen and I decided to commemorate the momentous occasion with celebratory cocktails.  As I walked into the kitchen to refresh our drinks, my nose detected an unmistakable odor.

“Hey, come in here and smell this,” I shouted towards the living room.

“Smells like weed,” boqueen said as she entered the room.

My kitchen was inundated with the smell of burning marijuana.  Specifically, it was the smell of low-quality ditch weed rolled into a blunt with a flavored wrap.

(For the uninitiated, a “blunt” consists of marijuana rolled in cigar paper.  Many believe that blunts produce a higher level of intoxication, or, as urban dictionary notes, “a blunt a day keeps the doctor away.” Blunt wraps are pre-packaged cigar rolling papers which eliminate the hassle of removing the tobacco from a cigar.  As an added bonus, blunt wraps are available in a variety of flavors, including cherry, vanilla, gin & juice and “purple.”) 

Figure 3: A blunt.

The potent odor had permeated my kitchen from the window that faces my back porch.  It was an incredibly strong smell, as if the blunt had been smoked at my kitchen table. 

I opened the door out to my porch and was greeted by a more intense cloud of the disgusting odor.  At the door creaked open, I heard a flurry of footsteps as several people scattered on a lower floor. 

Every few days, the smell would return.  The blunt stink would appear at random intervals, sometimes late at night, sometimes in the middle of the morning on weekdays.

My inherent disdain for interaction with neighbors led me to avoid confronting the issue.  While it was annoying to unexpectedly smell a strawberry-kiwi-flavored blunt while working on TPS reports on a Tuesday afternoon, the situation was easily remedied with a few sprays of air freshener and a scented candle. 

I soon confirmed my suspicions that basement unit was the source of the offending odor.  On multiple occasions, I staggered through a dense cloud of smoke on the basement level while taking out the garbage.  Other times, I would inadvertently catch the pseudo-thugs in the act, prompting them to dash into the apartment like frightened cockroaches confronted with a bright light. 

I found it quite ironic that the teenagers would be brazen enough to smoke on the enclosed porch, yet they would immediately become frightened and hide when caught in the act, as if I were wearing a police officer’s uniform.

Fucking pussies. 

::

Last Friday, I worked from my “home office,” better known as my kitchen.  During the afternoon, I was startled by someone rapping on the back door of my apartment.  This is highly unusual, as the entrance to the building is in the front, and only the other tenants have access to the back porch.

I opened the door and was greeted by an elderly cracker who presented an identification card issued by the city of Chicago.

He explained that he was a city building inspector, and that he was checking for smoke and carbon monoxide detectors.  I let him in and walked him over to the smoke detector in the hallway.  Next, I showed him the carbon monoxide detector in my kitchen, which is perpetually unplugged so the outlet can be used for far more important things, such as our laptop computers and BlackBerry chargers.

“Funny thing, I just unplugged the carbon monoxide detector so I could charge my phone,” I explained. 

The inspector was satisfied and asked that I let him exit through the front door.  The brief visit by the building inspector seemed to pass without incident. 

::

That evening, I walked to the grocery store to procure essential forms of sustenance for the weekend, such as a case of Miller Lite and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. 

Upon returning home, the trashy broad from the basement unit was standing outside. 

“Hey bokeen, hey bokeen,” she said like a fucking parrot.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I replied, unable to recall her scummy-ass name.  I assume that it is something like “fuckhole” or “skidmark” or “pukestain.”  Yes, I believe her name is “Pukestain Gonzalez.” 

“The building inspector was here today.  He was in your apartment,” she announced as if it were breaking news that was highlighted in yellow with blinking letter across the ticker on CNN. 

“Yeah,” I responded, already growing tired of the conversation. 

“Well, yeah, he told the landlord that he smelled weed,” she replied.

“No surprise there.  The back porch always smells like weed,” I snapped back in the most accusatory tone possible.

“Yeah, but he said he smelled it in the front stairs,” she said.  “I talked to Jesse (the landlord) today, and he was wondering what’s up.” 

I responded with a cynical grin.

“So, I am not trying to pass judgment or anything like that,” she continued.  “I just wanted to give you a heads up.  I mean, what you do is you bus–“

“Well, boqueen and I don’t smoke bud,” I interjected, “so I don’t really have anything to worry about.”

She began an anecdote I had little interest in, as my arm was growing tired from holding a 24 pack of beer.

“We used to live up on the top floor,” she said, before beginning a run-on sentence of epic proportions. “And this one time, Jesse came over and the kitchen smelled like weed and I was all worried because he smelled the weed but it was my son’s girlfriend who smoked weed because none of us would ever smoke weed in the house because this is our home and we wouldn’t want to risk that because I have a family.”

“Yeah,” I responded, hoping to reach the conclusion of her Shakespearian tale.

As she briefly paused, I heard the hamster wheel turning in her tiny, malnourished head.

“So if you don’t smoke weed, it was probably Anjelica,” she stammered.  Her smile indicated pride in her ability to craft a pathetic lie.

While I do not know Anjelica very well, I would never suspect her as a pot smoker.  In fact, she seems quite like the type of broad who colors inside the lines and would not engage in illicit activities such as double-parking, let alone (gasp) using drugs.

“I let the building inspector out through my front door,” I explained, “and it didn’t smell like pot.”

“I just wanted to give you a heads up,” she responded.

“No need,” I said. “I have nothing to hide.  We don’t smoke pot.”

“Well, my brother lives with me and he smokes sometimes, but never at home,” she admitted.  “And my son – well, you know, he likes to smoke cigars, but I know, as a fact, that he doesn’t smoke weed.”

I was absolutely appalled.  My scrawny female neighbor had assumed that I was unable to detect the distinct scent of marijuana when “masked” by piña colada-flavored blunt wraps.  

Perhaps she assumed that I am a naive white boy since she is unaware of my rich history as an expert-level pot smoker.

I offered a parting jab before the conversation ended. 

“Well, thanks, but I am not concerned,” I responded.  “boqueen and I don’t smoke weed because we are adults.”

::

I walked up the stairs to my apartment, seething with anger.  The degenerate woman’s strategy was painfully obvious.  She realized that her son’s habit of smoking sugary blunts was obvious to the entire building and that the offensive odor would inevitably cause complaints to the landlord.  She had hoped that by candidly admitting that her family members routinely indulge in a puff, I would be compelled to admit the same.

I suspect that if our landlord ever smelled weed in the building, she would quickly point to the conniving mixed-race couple on the top floor as the culprit. 

When I explained to her that I only smoke tobacco products, she suggested that Anjelica might be the inconsiderate smoker.  Again, I find this to be completely implausible and another transparent attempt at deflecting blame.

I was slightly annoyed by her childlike attempt to find a scapegoat for her son’s behavior.  However, I was absolutely enraged by her attempts to coax an admission of guilt out of me, and then convince me that my quiet and kind neighbor was actually a completely inconsiderate pothead.  She was trying to outsmart me. 

Don’t try to outsmart a smart-ass.

I do not mind if one of my peers outsmarts me.  If a friend succeeds in pulling a clever prank at my expense, or if a coworker happens to make me believe a lie in order to cover their ass, I applaud their efforts.

This is a quite different scenario.  In this case, my sickly, trashy neighbor is attempting to sell me a bullshit story.  The woman speaks at a fifth-grade level.  I find it insulting to know that she believed she could beat me in a battle of wits. 

I am a college-educated professional and a world-renowned writer.  She is a young mother who never educated her son about the inherent irony of referring to himself as a “nigger” while associating with the Latin Kings. 

Forgive me if I am boastful, but I believe that I have her beaten in the “brains” department. 

::

I have decided to abandon my laissez-faire approach to neighborly relations.  Until last Friday, I was fully content with ignoring the disgusting stench of flavored blunt smoke that would waft into my kitchen and saturate my entire apartment.  My neighbor’s pathetic, juvenile attempt to shield her teenage dirtbag offspring from blame, and potentially eviction, is completely intolerable. 

My anger is exasperated by her initial strategy, which consisted of pointing the finger at boqueen and I when the building reeks of low-quality marijuana.   

This will not stand.

The next time I detect the faintest odor of weed in the building, I am calling the cops.  I will dial 9-1-1 and shriek in horror like a Concerned Neighbor would.  I will explain that the use of drugs in my building makes me fear for my life.

I will continue to call, relentlessly, every single time the thug boys and his chums smoke in the building. 

I will even call when they decide to loiter out in front of the building, expressing my fear of “gang activity.”  I will call until my landlord becomes terribly annoyed by the frequent visits by Chicago’s finest. 

I am making it my personal mission to see to it that the degenerates are evicted. 

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.

Would you like smallpox with that?

The traditions of Thanksgiving and the oppression of brown people in America continue on to this day.  Two particular traditions have become emblematic of modern Thanksgiving: turkey and football.

Turkey is the centerpiece of a proper Thanksgiving dinner.  Some will eschew turkey in favor of ham.  This is clearly wrong and roundly Un-American.  Ham proponents should be treated with a great deal of caution, as they are likely Communist sympathizers or members of Al Qaeda.

The second pillar of Thanksgiving is football.  For over a century, professional football games have been routinely played on the holiday.  The National Football League continued the tradition upon its inception in 1920.  Eventually, the Detroit Lions and the Dallas Cowboys became the de facto hosts of the holiday games.  In 2006, the NFL added a third game to the Thanksgiving schedule involving two other teams.

The NFL’s lineup of “Thanksgiving Classic” games has not been particularly entertaining in recent years, and this year’s games were particularly abhorrent. 

::

In the first game of the day, the Lions hosted the Green Bay Packers.  I was still at home during the first quarter, but I did not watch the game, as I was too busy scraping the crust out of my eyes and mainlining caffeine in hopes of recovering from my annual, debilitating Thanksgiving hangover. 

On my way to my aunt’s house, I tuned into the radio broadcast of the game. 

Only rich bastard like Uncle Phil pronounces “aunt” with the “w” sound.

(There are two different ways to pronounce the word “aunt.”  Most pronounce the word “ant,” like the name of the insect.  Others acknowledge the presence of the letter “u” by pronouncing it with a “w” sound.  The latter, “awnt” pronunciation is favored by doucebags and people with a shit mess of money.  While reading this, please pronounce the work in the second manner, as I am a douchebag.)

The trip to my aunt’s suburban home took nearly an hour, as I heard most of the second and third quarter of the game.  I expected very little entertainment value from the game, as the Lions are world-renowned for their football ineptitude.  Remarkably, the game actually sounded pathetic.  As I drove, the Packers scored 20 unanswered points to secure a 27-7 lead.

The announcers struggled mightily to paint a positive picture of a Lions team that is an absolute abomination on the football field.  Their efforts were futile and came across as apologetic. 

The color commentator extolled the virtues of rookie quarterback Matthew Stafford, who threw four interceptions in the game.  He later remarked that the Lions were an “improving” team.  The comment was steeped in irony, considering that the team lost all 16 of its games in 2008.  The team has no option but to improve, as the only way the team could regress further would be to fold the franchise. 

I arrived in time to witness the conclusion of the televised drubbing of the Lions.  The Packers won 34-12, a margin of more than three touchdowns. 

The second game featured the Dallas Cowboys and the Oakland Raiders, a matchup that was no more attractive that the first.  By the second quarter, Raiders defense seemed helpless as the Cowboys moved the ball with impunity.  In the true spirit of the holiday, we were all thankful when my aunt announced dinner was ready, granting us temporary reprieve from the game, which the Cowboys led 10-0. 

We gleefully gorged ourselves on a meal of turkey, polish sausage, stuffing and a seemingly endless selection of sides before returning to the game. 

I have a simple rule: Do not eat foods that look like vomit.

(While I am a staunch proponent of turkey, polish sausage is one of my favorite foods.  Inexplicably, my aunt insists on cooking the sausage Polack style for Thanksgiving.  This involves placing the sausage into a big vat of boiling sauerkraut, contaminating the sausage with vinegar-based swill.  I find sauerkraut to be one of the most degusting vomit-like foods on the planet.  To me, it is the equivalent of marinating a porterhouse steak in rat bile.)

By the time dinner was over, Dallas had jumped to a 17-0 lead.  In the third quarter, the Cowboys were overcoming with the giving spirit of the holiday season.  The defense charitably relented for one series, allowing the Raiders to score a touchdown.

Despite fielding being led by the legendary Bruce Gradkowski, the finest Polish-American quarterback since Ron Jaworski, the Raiders fell to the Cowboys, 24-7. 

I left for home after the conclusion of the second game.  I was unable to watch the third game, which was broadcast on the NFL Network, a channel which is available in less than half of American households.  Regardless, I had no further interest in football after witnessing the first two dismal games.

In the nightcap, the Denver Broncos beat the New York Giants by 20 points.  All three of the “Thanksgiving Classic” games were decided by margins of three scores. 

::

The NFL’s lineup of Thanksgiving Day games was so incredibly pathetic that I am tempted to travel to league commissioner Roger Goodell’s offices in New York and punch him directly in the scrotum.

The presence of the Detroit Lions in the “Thanksgiving Classic” is absolutely inexcusable.  Granted, Detroit teams have a strong history of playing on Thanksgiving, but common sense should win over tradition in this case.  The true Lions tradition is one of ineptitude.  They posted the first-ever 0-16 record in 2008.  They haven’t had a winning record since 2000.  They have not been in the playoffs in a decade.  They have never appeared in a Super Bowl.  They last won a title in 1957, way back when your grandmother was still fuckable. 

The NFL should see Thanksgiving as an incredible opportunity to win over new fans.  It is a day when people who don’t normally watch football may be inadvertently parked in front of a television with family members.  Granted, football has supplanted baseball as the country’s true pastime, and literally billions of Americans tune in every Sunday.  However, showcasing a predictably lopsided matchup involving the Lions does very little to win over the last few holdouts which include your aforementioned grandmother and your gay cousin Kenny. 

The decision to slate the Raiders to take on the Cowboys was also inexplicable.  Like the Lions, the Raiders were one of the NFL’s bottom-feeders last season, finishing with only five wins.  The Raiders have struggled considerably for seven consecutive seasons, never finishing with more than five wins.  Over the same course of time, the Cowboys have won fewer than nine games only once and have become a perennial contender, appearing in the playoffs three times.  The holiday blowout was completely predictable. 

Part of the reason that the Raiders were slated to face the Cowboys was an archaic, informal rule that dictates that one AFC team has to be involved in the holiday festivities in either Detroit or Dallas.  Yet the Cowboys have three AFC teams on their schedule this year other than the Raiders: the Denver Broncos, Kansas City Chiefs and San Diego Chargers.  The Broncos and the Chargers would have provided for a more competitive matchup – the Broncos even beat the Cowboys last month.  Even a matchup between the Cowboys and the woeful Chiefs may have been better, as the Chiefs took the Cowboys into overtime in week five.

I cannot fault the NFL for scheduling the third matchup between the Giants and the Broncos.  After all, it was an epic matchup between quarterbacks Eli Manning and future Hall-of-Famer Kyle Orton.  In the absence of his neck beard and the ability to summon its mythical powers, I expected that Orton and the Bronocs would fall flat against the Giants, but they ultimately prevailed. 

I do take issue with the fact that the NFL scheduled the game on the elusive NFL network, a channel only available to approximately 50 million households.  The decision prevented more than half the country from watching the most intriguing matchup of the evening. 

Please follow my chain of logic:
Thanksgiving = American
Football = American
American = Freedom
Thus, Thanksgiving + Football > Freedom

The NFL elected to show the Giants-Broncos matchup on a station that is unavailable to millions of Comcast customers, as well as those who chose to use an old-fashioned antenna to receive television reception.  This presents an incredible conflict, since football equals American and American equals freedom.  In other words, the NFL clearly hates freedom.  If you ever get an envelope in the mail with a return address from the NFL’s offices in New York, do not open it, as it probably contains Anthrax. 

In addition, I believe that the NFL funds Hamas and the Grinch Who Stole Christmas.  While I have no evidence to support my theory, please copy and paste my theory into an email to all of your contacts, as I would love to start an Interwebs “meme.” 

::

Again, I feel that Thanksgiving games are an excellent way for the league to increase its fan base, yet the NFL is willing to squander such an opportunity.  I sense blatant overconfidence in the league’s decision to schedule two games that were clearly terrible matchups, along with another game on a network unavailable to the majority of Americans.

The cocksure NFL sent a clear message to fans on Thanksgiving: “We supplanted baseball as the nation’s premiere sport, and you will eat up whatever garbage we give to you on Thanksgiving.  Watch the games or take in the other bullshit that the other networks are presenting.  We are sure you can find some reruns of Everyone Loves Raymond or other deplorable garbage on the picture box.”

As a basketball fan, I appreciate the approach that the NBA takes with its Christmas Day games.  It NBA uses December 25 as a platform to launch the league into national attention, airing its first nationally televised games in hopes of capturing the interest of fans who will seek a new outlet for their attention after the Super Bowl in early February.

When Michael Jordan was still playing, he was a fixture of Christmas Day games.  When I was a teenager, the annual Bulls-Knicks matchup was far more important than stupid Jesus and his stupid fucking birthday.

He’s fat, jolly and wearing red. Santa, is that you?

Today, the NBA schedules its premier players on Christmas, as a showcase of the talent the league has to offer.  Kobe Bryant, LeBron James and whatever team Shaquille O’Neal’s bulbous, rotting corpse happens to be playing for are consistently a part of the December 25 games. 

The NFL cannot be bothered with such details.  They appreciate that you continue to watch the bullshit they put on your TV screen, regardless of the quality of play.

::

During the second half of the Cowboy-Raiders game, I briefly fell asleep. While I am not certain, I believe that my short slumber was interrupted by roar of the sounds of the fans at Cowboy Stadium as the home team butt-raped the Raiders, or the sound of my uncle’s sauerkraut-induced flatulence. 

As I awoke and brushed the crust from my eyes, I was overcome with a familiar feeling. 

“Why the fuck am I watching this?” I asked myself.

Losing interest in an NFL game is a disconcerting sensation.  After all, this is football, a game designed to be exciting.  As unnaturally overgrown athletes puffed full of HGH streaked across the screen in a primitive attempt to injure one another, I was napping and dreaming about playing catch with my dog.   

Are you ready for some football?

Is something wrong with me for not enjoying football?  Am I as Un-American as the families who eat ham on Thanksgiving, or as masculine as the dude with the puffy sleeves from America’s Next Top Model?

I reasoned that there is nothing wrong with me.  While football is an incredibly entertaining spectacle, bad football is no more exciting that watching my toenails grow.  And, as a fan of the Chicago Bears, I am well acquainted with bad football. 

::

I have been following the Bears religiously for more than half of my life.  This season marks the first time that I have genuinely lost interest in the team, routinely dozing off during games and asking, “Why the fuck am I watching this?” as I awake.

The Bears have been an absolutely pathetic excuse for a professional football team this season.  Currently, their record stands at 4-7, which does not accurately reflect how incredibly inept the team is.

Since their games normally begin at noon on Sundays, I typically settle into a routine of waking up, hung over, moments before the game.  This year, my routine has been modified slightly.  I usually wake up about half an hour after the game has began, only to discover that the Bears are already down by two touchdowns or more.  After smoking a few cigarettes, I return to the bedroom to update boqueen.

“How are the Bears doing,” she will ask, wiping the crust from her eyes.

“They are down 21-3, so don’t bother getting out of bed,” I respond. 

Inevitably, I sit through three hours of excruciating football.  By the time it is over, I am tragically disappointed and feel that I have wasted my time. 

It would be easy to call me a fair-weather fan.  However, this is not the case.  I’ve loyally followed the team through feast, famine and worse. 

I tuned in every Sunday when Mike Tomczak and Tom Waddle offered pedestrian performances, but were still the team’s most potent offensive force.  I tuned in every Sunday when Erik Kramer, a fragile and aging quarterback, led the offense, despite suffering countless concussions, including one for straining too hard while moving his bowels.  I tuned in every Sunday when a decaying corpse named Kordell Stewart lined up behind center.  I tuned in every Sunday when the comical quarterback carousel of Chad Hutchinson, Jonathan Quinn and Craig Krenzel took the field. 

I am done.

My complete disdain for the Bears is due to heightened expectations.  For the first time ever, the offense is led by a capable quarterback, former Pro Bowler Jay Cutler.  Yet the Bears have been unable to deliver on these expectations, and Cutler has been unable to outperform the carnival of ass-clowns he succeeded. 

After the Bears were undressed by NFL darling Brett Farve on Sunday, I realized that watching Bears games is the most effective way to ruin my Sunday.  For the rest of the season, I am boycotting my favorite team.  I refuse to watch any more games, or even highlight packages on the evening news. 

The NFL’s wretched “Thanksgiving Classic” lineup of games taught me that watching crappy football games is a complete waste of my time.

And I am thankful for that.    

A few weeks after I moved into my building, the pilot light on my oven stopped working.  When I turned on the oven, nothing happened.  While I am an excellent cook, I find it difficult to cook a roast at room temperature.

I complained to the management staff.  For some inexplicable reason, they were interested and engaged.  Three days later, the maintenance staff visited my apartment to correct the issue.

After about 25 minutes of troubleshooting, they determined that my oven contained an electronic pilot.  Since they did not have an electronic pilot on hand, a repair would take “three or four weeks.”  I assumed that the nearest Maytag plant was located on the icy rings of Saturn, thereby necessitating such a lengthy delivery time.   

The band of Broken English-speaking rubes offered me an alternative: they could switch my stove with another one, located in an abandoned apartment across the hall.  I agreed to the proposal due to the fact that the new stove possessed 21st century features, such as a functional light bulb in the oven.  

After an hour of hard labor and the creation of several indelible scuffs across the tiled floor of my kitchen, the new stove was installed.  The leader of the pack of blue-shirted men quickly declared that one of the burners on the new stove was non-functional. 

“This not work,” he proclaimed.  “We fix it tomorrow. Clean with wire brush, gas go.”

I was satisfied with the incoherent explanation.  After all, who wouldn’t want a good old fashioned “clean with wire brush” in order to enable “gas go?” 

The blue-shirted men never returned.  After about four weeks, the burner began to work again, despite the fact that the repair never happened.

::

I was working from home last Friday when a hearty manila envelope was slipped under my door.  I opened the envelope to find an eight-page packet that pertained to the expiration of my lease.

I am certain that there is less paperwork involved in aborting a fetus or joining the Army. 

The cover letter boldly declared Jupiter Comminity’s affinity for me.

“It is our hope that you have enjoyed your stay with us,” the letter declared, failing to note the abhorrent level of service that I have dealt with over the course of the last ten months.

“Contact the Rental office and one of our professional office staff will prepare your new lease and contact you when it is ready to sign,” the letter continued.  While I have no intention of extending my lease, I briefly envisioned another encounter between the rotund broad who had logged and subsequently ignored my complaints.  Such a rendezvous would certainly be delightful.

The cover letter also informed me that my rent would be increasing from $655 per month to $670.  The packet also included details about how I would be responsible for $6 per month for trash and $20 per month for my usage of water.

If I chose to live in the same apartment, my rent would effectively increase from $655 to $696.  This amounts to nearly a 7% increase in the cost of rent.  Jupiter Properties was courteous enough to mask such an increase in the guise of completely separate charges. 

“New rental rates DO NOT include these new fees,” page three of the eight-page packet declared.

This seems inherently deceptive.  I feel that if if I am to pay for water service and garbage disposal, those fees should be included in my monthly rent rather then presented as separate line items.  After all, I would have to write a $696 check at the end of each month.  Masking additional charges as separate feeds is rather misleading. 

Furthermore, Jupiter Properties decided to apply a blanket rate for water service, as all one bedroom apartments pay the same amount for water service.

I object to the notion of paying for utilities that are not metered.  Directly below me, six fucking people live in a one bedroom apartment.  I assume that unit uses six times more water than I do.  Also, I spend a great deal of time at boqueen’s palace and traveling to assorted work and family-related destinations.   Due to the fact that I spend less than 50 percent of evenings at my apartment, I feel that I should not be liable for the same water bill as the family of six.

Jupiter Properties decided that all members of the “community” should share the burden for the water bill.  Such a proposition sounds much like Communism.  From my recollection, the Soviets were a big proponent of Communism, and it did not bode well for them.

::

Ironically, I encountered yet another problem with my apartment mere hours after receiving the lease renewal packet.  As boqueen entered the bathroom to prepare for bed Friday night, she flicked the light switch, which promptly fell off the wall. 

I was unable to find a quick fix for the problem, partially due to the fact that I was highly intoxicated at the time. 

The light switch pictured on the left does not function as designed.

After briefly nursing a mild hangover the following morning, I paid a visit to the management office.  I was greeted by the familiar face of the broad who I had dealt with regarding the problems with the light in my kitchen.

I explained what had happened, and she told me that the switch could be repaired on Tuesday at the earliest.

“My bathroom is completely dark,” I responded. “As you know, there are no windows in the bathrooms of these units.”

She explained that the maintenance staff was off for the holiday weekend.

“I do not want to shower in the dark,” I replied.

“Can’t you use the hallway light?” the bulbous broad inquired.

“I don’t have a hallway light,” I responded.  “Can you have one installed for me?”

The broad seemed somewhat sympathetic to my plight.  She offered to contact the lead janitor. 

“Okay, I will be sure to call you in a couple of hours,” she said, jotting down my phone number.

The call never came and the repair never happened.

boqueen and I left the following evening.  As we walked to my car, I noticed that one of the maintenance staff members was working on his car in the complex’s service garage.  That is a fairly typical occurrence on a Sunday afternoon, but I was annoyed by the fact that the janitor was on site, yet he could not be bothered to spend ten minutes installing a new light switch in my bathroom. 

While driving to boqueen’s palace, I lamented the ignorance of the broad in the management office and the inconvenience of bathing in the dark.

“I’m sure they’ll have it fixed when I get back Tuesday night,” I wistfully hoped aloud.

When I returned on Tuesday, I discovered that the repair never happened.

::

I could easily write another 2,500 words to my displeasure with Jupiter Communities, but I feel that I have already dedicated too much energy to a topic that fills me with murderous rage.

I find company’s complete lack of concern for the condition of the buildings they manage utterly appalling.  Their inability to address even the most minor issues is indicative of an organization that cares not for the quality of their apartments or the happiness of the residents.  Jupiter Communities exists solely to collect rent checks and make a profit.  I fail to understand why they even bother to staff the management office for more than 50 hours a week. 

To Jupiter Communities, I am a faceless resident who writes $655 checks that clear every month. 

I realize that the lease renewal packet that they sent me is a required formality.  Nevertheless, it some ways it feels insulting that the company that flatly refused to respond to any of the complaints that I have brought to their attention over the course of the past 10 months would suggest that I might renew my lease for this god-awful apartment. 

That will never happen. 

Few things are as torturous as packing up all of your material possessions into assorted cardboard boxes, trudging these boxes and furniture into a pricy rental truck, driving to a new location and unloading.  It is a physically exhausting endeavor that is immediately followed by the mental anguish of spending weeks attempting to reestablish some semblance of organization your life and comfort in your new home. 

For weeks, one inevitably feels like a refugee, sorting through a seemingly endless collection of boxes in search of a mundane item.

“Where did I pack the goddamn fucking forks?” I’ve shouted on several occasions after combing through four indistinguishable cardboard boxes marked “kitchen.” 

This disdain for the ordeal of moving to a new home is exacerbated by the fact that I have lived in 13 different places over the course of the last decade. 

My current lease is set to expire on November 1.  Despite my contempt for cardboard boxes, bubble wrap and U-Haul trucks, I am looking forward to moving to my 14th home in the last 10 years. 

Granted, I have lived in much worse places than my current apartment.  Douchebag neighbors, cantankerous geese, a ponzi scheme promoting janitor and the persistent smell of marijuana and crack cocaine in the lobby are only minor nuisances.  My greatest grievance is with the inattentive management company.

Months before I moved into my new apartment, the complex was purchased by Jupiter Communities, a Chicago-based company that manages 40 “communities” across the country.

I have no firsthand experience with the prior management company; other residents have suggested that the former regime was more attentive to minor details, such as ensuring that various aspects of the building function as intended.

::

Weeks after moving in, the fluorescent overhead light in my kitchen stopped working properly.  When I flicked the switch on the wall, the light would take several minutes to turn on.  Sometimes, the light wouldn’t function at all.

The fixture required a new ballast, which is a simple repair.  However, as an apartment-dweller, I do not own a ladder, which would be necessary for reaching the ceiling-mounted fixture.  Furthermore, I refuse to perform such repairs to an apartment; I feel that minor repairs are covered in what I pay in monthly rent. 

The moment I discovered the issue, I walked down to the management office and reported the problem.  The broad in the office kindly jotted down my information and said the maintenance staff would fix the issue that week.  The repair never happened.

Weeks later, I called the management office from work.  The broad on the phone asked for my address and apartment number, explaining that the maintenance staff would fix the light the following day.  The repair never happened.

I ran into the Bible-thumping head of the maintenance staff and explained my problem.  He apologized and pledged to dispatch one of his goons to troubleshoot the faulty fixture.  The repair never happened.

For months, I begrudgingly dealt with the issue.  I cooked countless dinners in a darkened kitchen, illuminated only by the small light above my sink.

Last month, I returned from a weekend excursion at boqueen’s palace and found that the management company had slipped a note under my door.  The letter explained that they would be conducting mandatory inspections of the units, and that a note should be left on the kitchen counter detailing any issue that required attention. 

When composing my note, I used a bright yellow piece of paper and scrawled the message in a thick permanent marker – I did not want the note to go unnoticed.  I imitated the vocabulary of the few maintenance men that I had spoken to.

“KITCHEN LIGHT DON’T WORK,” the note read.

I placed the note on my kitchen counter.  When I returned home from work the following evening, the note was gone.  I eagerly ran to the light switch, in hope of discovering that the maintenance staff had replaced the faulty ballast. 

Alas, the repair had not happened.

I considered the possibility that the maintenance staff did not have a new ballast on hand.  Perhaps they would require a few days to make the repair. 

I waited two weeks.  The repair never happened.

After months of toiling away in my dimly-lit kitchen, I again walked to the management office.  Again, I explained my problem and again, I was told that the issue would be corrected over the course of the following week.

I told the broad that her proposed timeline was unacceptable.  I demanded that the issue be corrected the following day.

“I’ve been dealing with a dark kitchen for over eight months,” I explained. “I’ve reported this several times and you guys haven’t done a goddamn thing.”

“I am terribly sorry, Mr. boke– ”

I cut her off mid-sentence.  “In fact, when came in December to report the problem, you were the persons who took down a note about the issue.”

“I will be sure to notif–”

“And what did you do with that note?” I interrupted. “Did you just throw it out?”

“I apolo–”

“You realize that the lights haven’t worked since last year, right?” I shouted. “That’s right, the last time I cooked in my apartment with the lights on, George W. fucking Bush was still president.  Fix it now!”

I stormed out of the office before the bloated broad was able to respond.  The following day, the repair happened. 

::

The issue with the light fixture in my kitchen is one of the many grievances that I have with Jupiter Communities.  In many ways, the company is the drunken, abusive, deadbeat father of property management. 

::

When I moved into my building, one of the three entrances was perpetually unlocked.  While this was quite convenient for residents that were locked out of the building, it also presented a security concern.  I considered that there might be a correlation between the smell of crack smoke in the lobby and the unfettered access the public, including drifters, were granted to the building.

After six months, the bumbling maintenance staff attempted to correct the issue.   It quickly became clear that the blue-shirted fleet of janitors were not qualified locksmiths.  The door would not open at all.  Residents occupying the middle third of the building were needlessly inconvenienced, forced to walk 300 feet to an alternate entrance.

Seven weeks later, the repair finally happened. 

::

My apartment features on-site laundry: four washers and four dyers are located in the basement of the building.  This is a very important feature when searching for an apartment.  Hauling several weeks’ worth of clothing to the local laundromat is a taxing endeavor, especially during the winter. 

Unfortunately, the washing machines in my building were quite leaky.  Washing a load of laundry would generate a one-inch layer of water on the painted concrete floors of the laundry room.  Wet, painted concrete floors are a quite slippery surface.  On several occasions, I fell on my ass while transferring clothes to the dryers.

The unreceptive management staff showed very little interest in my complaints.  Likewise, several of my neighbors told me that they had complained as well, but the repair never happened.

::

Chicagoland endured some particularly rainy periods last spring.  Mother Nature, who is normally a raving cunt bitch whore, decided to intervene in my situation and render the faulty washing machines useless. 

One particularly rainy evening, the basement began to flood.  Water continued to rise in the basement, threatening to saturate the building’s main fuse box and potentially electrocute everyone in the building, which would transform the residents into charred, smoldering corpses. 

In the wee hours of the morning, the building was evacuated.  Fortunately, I was not present at the time.  My elderly neighbor, Ellen, was instructed to find a suitable hotel for herself, her husband and his oxygen tank and her crippled dog. 

Ellen elected to sleep in her car instead.  Several hours later, the maintenance staff finally learned how to use a sump pump to clear the unwanted water from the basement, and the building was declared inhabitable. 

The rising water had rendered the washers and dryers useless.   For six weeks, the laundry room was closed and residents were force to explore other options for cleaning their clothes.

Certainly, on-site laundry is a luxury.  Yet I had assumed that this feature was included in the price that I pay every month for rent.  Clearly, Jupiter Communities thinks otherwise, as evidenced by their hesitance to outfit the laundry room with appropriate appliances.

Click here for part two.

Wednesday, the free agent guard agreed to the terms of a contract with the Detroit Pistons.  The soon-to-be-former Chicago Bull wasted no time in bolting out of town, agreeing to the deal less than 24 hours after the start of the NBA’s free agency period.

Gordon quickly became a fan favorite after being selected by the Bulls in the 2004 NBA Draft.  His late-game heroics and incredible shooting ability propelled him to the honor of becoming the first rookie to receive the league’s Sixth Man of the Year Award.  He was runner-up for Rookie of the Year honors, narrowly losing out to his college teammate Emeka Okafor.

Very few NBA players possess Gordon’s clutch scoring abilities.  His skill is only rivaled by the likes of superstars such as Kobe Bryant and LeBron James.  However, unlike these premiere players, Gordon is pathetically inept in virtually every other aspect of the game.

Gordon embodies the concept of a one-dimensional player. He excels in a singular area: scoring.  He is lacking in the areas of handling the ball, passing, rebounding, defending, challenging shots, setting a screen and moving without the ball. 

Listed at a generous measurement of six foot, three inches tall, Gordon’s has the body of a point guard.  Yet he lacks the skills and decision-making ability to run an NBA offense.  As a result, he is often placed in the role of shooting guard or small forward.  While he excels at scoring, even against taller players, he is a liability on defense.  Players exploit his lack of defensive skills, scoring with impunity while Gordon flails his arms around and pretends to care. 

I admonish Pistons fans about the perils of becoming Ben Gordon fan.  The experience will be delightful when Gordon rescues games that would seem otherwise unwinnable.  Other times, the streaky shooter will experience a slump, mindlessly dribbling around the court searching for a difficult shot that will inevitably clank off the side of the rim.

Fans of the NBA are familiar with Gordon’s clutch performances, but bad nights are not worthy of a highlight on SportsCenter, so they have gone virtually unnoticed outside of Chicago.

Gordon’s final game in a Bulls uniform is emblematic of his notoriously inconsistent performances.  In Game 7 of the this year’s epic playoff series with the Boston Celtics, Gordon scored 33 points and didn’t miss one of his 15 free-throws.  Yet in more than 46 minutes of action – more than any other Bulls player – he shot 7 for 23 from the field.

In what was arguably the biggest game of the 26-year-old sharpshooter’s life, he made just over 30 percent of the field goals that he attempted.

Coach Vinny Del Negro decided to leave Gordon in the game for the fourth quarter, despite the fact that he was clearly having a bad night, shooting 6 for 16 from the field and hitting one of nine three-point attempts in the first three quarters.   Gordon took seven shots in the fourth quarter, connecting on one. 

One cannot fault Del Negro for his unshaken confidence in Gordon, because Ben Gordon’s game is a potent opiate that is difficult to kick.

Gordon’s clutch performances have an addictive quality that affects both coaches and fans.  Once hooked, the individual has little chance of recovery.  Each time that Gordon hits a game-winning shot, a massive rush of endorphins are released into the addict’s brain, creating an unparalleled sensation of euphoria. 

After Gordon submits a woeful performance, as he did in Game 7 against the Celtics, the addict writhes on their bathroom floor, vomiting and trembling, pledging to never again abuse the drug known as Ben Gordon.

The addict is clearly lying to himself, too hooked on the rush of extraordinary late-game performances to commit himself to quitting cold turkey.  Without fail, when the team is down by eight with two minutes left, Gordon’s name is called by the junkie coach.  Many times, Gordon’s offensive skills are the impetus for a win.  Other times, his streaky shooting and defensive ineptitude result in a loss.  Regardless, the junkie coach gets his fix and the vicious cycle continues.

Seasoned NBA coaches are far less susceptible to such an addiction.  Former Bulls’ coach Scott Skiles did a far better job of managing Gordon’s minutes, leveraging his skills when necessary.  Del Negro abused the Ben Gordon drug with reckless abandon, leaving him in the games at times when he clearly was not capable of the heroics that defined his career.  Game 7 against the Celtics is the prime example of this trend, which extended throughout Del Negro’s first season as head coach. 

I sympathize with Del Negro’s misfortune.  Undoubtedly, the young coach will find himself in a situation where his team is team is down by 11 in the fourth quarter.  He will turn to his bench, calling Gordon’s name in hopes of his quick fix.  But Gordon will be 250 miles away, wearing the jersey of a Central Division rival. 

Unfortunately, there is no treatment for Ben Gordon junkies; there are no rehabilitation centers or drugs such as methadone to help a recovering addict.  Del Negro will certainly struggle with withdrawal symptoms as he attempts to break his habit cold-turkey.

It is unclear whether Detroit will rely as heavily on Gordon, as the team’s head coaching position is currently vacant.  Regardless, Gordon will certainly become extremely popular in Detroit once he demonstrates his spectacular scoring ability.  On some nights, he will contribute gaudy numbers and hit game winners.

On other nights, Gordon will be ice cold.  He will take a series of bad shots in hopes of breaking the slump.  Pistons fans will curse his name as he dribbles the ball while meandering around the court, ignoring open teammates and searching for his next ill-advised field goal attempt. 

The Ben Gordon era in Chicago was a tumultuous experience for fans, as he was simultaneously a tremendous asset and a glaring liability.  He would follow an incredible late-game performance with an atrocious shooting night, single-handedly losing games for the team. 

Farwell, Ben Gordon; you are Detroit’s problem now. 

I am the polar opposite of a tree-hugging hippie.  In fact, I go to great lengths to damage the environment by wasting resources and polluting as much as possible.

When I finish a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of water while driving, I simply fling the empty container out the window. I don’t want my truck cluttered with trash.  After changing the oil in my truck, I pour the used oil directly into the nearest sewer.  It is far too much trouble drive to the gas station.

As I write this, all of the lights in my apartment are turned on, even though the sun has not yet set.  While today has been an unseasonably cool summer day, I have my windows closed and my air conditioner on full blast, along with three large box fans generating a powerful breeze directed towards my desk.

Forest fires give me a massive boner.

My bathroom sink is always on, dispensing hot water.  I am a busy man, and I have little time to wait for the water to warm up when I wash my hands.  Likewise, I have rigged my toilet so that it is perpetually flushing.  This results in a cleaner bowl and spares me from the hassle of pulling the handle.

I do not own a single terrycloth towel.  When I get out of the shower, I dry myself with a roll of paper towels and two hair driers. 

I do not own any glasses or plates, either.  In my home, all food and drink is served in Styrofoam containers.  When eating, I am sure to use a thick stack of three to five plates for the most rigid dining surface possible.  If I am refilling my drink, I discard my foam cup and use a new one, in the interest of cleanliness. 

When my neighbors take out their garbage, they embark on an epic journey to the dumpster located 70 feet from the door of our building.  I do not trouble myself with such needless physical excursion.  Instead, I wait until it is late at night, and then dump my garbage out of my living room window into the parking lot.  If I am feeling ambitious, I will walk to the front door and burn my garbage on the sidewalk, gleefully inhaling the thick black smoke that billows off of the flaming pile of rubbish. 

I do not discard my plastic six-pack rings with the rest of my garbage.  They are saved for my next visit to the beach, where I deposit them along the banks of Lake Michigan.

I am in favor of global warming, as winters in Chicago are bitterly cold and far too lengthy.  Sometimes, I will buy a can of Aqua Net for the sole purpose of spraying it into the air in hopes of helping to destroy the ozone layer. 

I believe that all remaining rain forests should be cut down and replaced with vast stretches of concrete and shopping malls.  Rainforests are too humid to be enjoyable and trees are boring.  When was the last time someone ordered a slice of Sbarro’s pizza or got a new pair of sneakers in a rainforest?   

::

Many share my contempt for the environment.  I would like honor those who share my belief that green initiatives are for pussies.     

Walgreens
Last weekend, I bought two packs of cigarettes at a Walgreens store.  The cashier handed me my change, along with a receipt no shorter than 15 inches long.  While it is completely unnecessary to provide such a large receipt for two items, I applaud the store’s effort to waste natural resources. 

I hope that the company accelerates the anti-environment campaign.  I would suggest printing every receipt on a poster-sized sheet of paper.  Or perhaps receipts could be carved into a log from a rainforest.  This would provide customers with a unique keepsake from their trip to the drug store and would be appreciated by customers with fireplaces. 

Radio Shack
Days before the recent transition to digital television, I purchased a 50-foot length of coaxial cable from a local Radio Shack store.  While an environmentally-conscious company would have simply slapped a tag on the tight coil of wire or placed it into a plastic bag, Radio Shack used an exorbitant amount of packaging.  The wire came in a sturdy cardboard box that contained additional chunks of cardboard and a block of foam, presumably to prevent the sturdy wire from becoming damaged during transport.

While I applaud Radio Shack’s effort, I encourage the company to take our campaign one step further by packaging the same box inside of a large foam box that would normally be used for transporting refrigerated foods.  Then, the foam box could be placed inside of a hard plastic shell that is extremely difficult to open. 

bokeena’s landlord
The front of my sister bokeena’s apartment building is decorated with a small patch of grass no larger than a walk-in closet.  Her landlord compulsively waters the lawn during the summer, often leaving the sprinkler on over night.  While the 12-hour watering sessions result in a swampy mess, I can appreciate the man’s clear disdain for water conservation. 

Yet the landlord is not doing enough to support our cause.  I recommend leaving the water on 24 hours per day, alternating between watering the lawn and the sidewalk.  After all, the pavement gets pretty hot during the summer.  In addition, he should make use of the water spigots on the two adjacent buildings.  The bricks of the building appear to be extremely dry and could certainly use a lengthy watering session as well.

Jewels
There is a Jewels grocery stores in my neighborhood that is not open 24 hours.  I often drive past the store after it has closed, noticing that every single light in the building is still turned on.  Such wastefulness is laudable. 

However, this effort leaves several unanswered questions.  For example, is the air conditioning running overnight?  I certainly hope that it is.  In addition, would it be possible to plug in hair driers into every electrical outlet into the store and leave them running overnight?  This would create a unique symphony of sound to greet the first employee to open the store, and would be a far more effective way to waste electricity.

The Chicago Police Department
Chicago police officers deserve the greatest level of adulation for their continued support of the anti-environmentalist cause.  Over the past few years, I have seen hundreds of police cars running while parked outside a of fast food restaurant.  As the portly officer casually chomps on his Quarter Pounder with Cheese and fraternizes with his comrades, his car’s engine continually runs.  I am impressed by the ability to simultaneously squander natural resources and taxpayer money, since cops do not pay for their own gasoline. 

I respectfully request that Chicago’s finest expand this wasteful practice.  I recommend that the Chicago Police Department mandate that all officers place their cars into neutral and rev the engine when stopped in traffic.  In addition, it would be helpful if the cars were left running overnight with the air conditioning turned on.  This would result in a very comfortable vehicle for the officer.  While the officer would be required to carry a spare container of gasoline as backup, this is of very little concern, since taxpayers would foot the bill. 

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I would like to extend my thanks to Walgreens, Radio Shack, my sister’s landlord, Jewels and the Chicago Police Department for advancing the cause of anti-environmentalism.  Someday, we may realize our collective dream of a concrete world coated in smog and devoid of all plant life.

I call it “utopia.” 

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In February, four bicycles were stolen from outside of a hotel in Santa Rosa, California.  The bicycles in question were not the caliber of a bike that you or I would ride; they belonged to Kazakh cycling Team Astana, which was competing in the Tour of California. 

Sacramento resident Lee Crider pleaded no contest to charges of burglary and theft in the case.  He will be sentenced to three years in prison. 

One of the bicycles belonged to legendary cyclist Lance Armstrong.

Armstrong is the record-setting, cancer-surviving, single-testicled, Livestrong-bracelet-wearing athlete that has dominated sports reports on summertime newscasts for a decade.  He is also a giant piece of steaming shit.

Lance Armstrong set the cycling world afire (yes, that is possible) between 1999 and 2005 with his absolute dominance of the Tour de France, cycling’s premiere competition.  His story spilled over to the mainstream media and he became an American hero.  He was named the Male Athlete of the Year by the Associated Press four years in a row.  The harrowing tale of his battle with cancer and subsequent rise to the pinnacle of athletic achievement became an inspirational narrative that enamored the media and received ceaseless coverage.

Somewhere along the line, another narrative threatened the mythology of Lance Armstrong.  In 2004, a book alleged that Armstrong was a steroid user.  Over the next few years, others latched on to the storyline, claiming that the world-renowned cyclist’s success was actually a product of the use of performance-enhancing drugs.     

Naturally, Armstrong has vehemently denied the allegations, despite an increasing amount of evidence of his drug use. 

I have said before that I am in favor of athletes using steroids to enhance their performance and, in turn, the entertainment value for viewers.  However, I do take issue with the portrayal of Armstrong as a hero who defied all odds by beating cancer and rising to the top of his sport.  If steroids played a role in Armstrong’s ascension to the peak of his profession, his story is not one of human triumph over adversity, but a testament to the transformative power of chemicals and their ability to unnaturally produce superhuman freaks.

Likewise, I find the iconic yellow “Livestrong” bracelets so detestable that the mere sight of one inspires me to sear my corneas with a hot soldering iron.  The campaign has raised millions of dollars for cancer research, which is laudable.  Yet the program leverages the trite storyline of Armstrong as a victim when it is entirely possible that his cancer is the result of years of drug use. 

I do not consider Lance Armstrong a hero, but a drug-using fool who mortgaged his health to become a champion. 

Lee Crider is a true hero for stealing Armstrong’s bicycle.  For a decade, the mass media has been polluted with hackneyed stories about Armstrong’s fight with cancer and subsequent rise to cycling glory.  The campaign is a complete injustice, and retribution is in order.  Crider simply struck a tiny blow against Armstrong for the millions of people that are tired of the Lance Armstrong narrative. 

Yet Crider is not celebrated as a hero.  He will not be honored with the ticker-tape parade that he deserves.  Instead, he will spend three years in prison.

The harsh penalty is in part due to the value of Amstrong’s bicycle the Crider stole; the Trek Livestrong 1274 bicycle is allegedly valued at $10,000.

I find such a claim absolutely absurd.  Under no circumstances is a bicycle worth $10,000.  My truck isn’t even worth $10,000, and it is equipped with a motor and a gas pedal so I don’t trouble myself by pedaling to get from one place to another.

Even if a bicycle was constructed from a space-age metal recycled from the body of a NASA space shuttle, was equipped with a seat covered in all-natural alligator skin, had a fiber optic braking system and was decorated with the skull of Abraham Lincoln himself that shot laser beams out of the eye sockets, it wouldn’t be worth $10,000. 

Crider understood the true value of a bicycle; he later sold the bike for the reasonable black market price of $200.

The court was wrong to accept the assertion that the bicycle was worth $10,000, as this is not the fair market value of the item.  Like in any subculture, a cycling enthusiast values a bicycle differently that a sane and rational individual.  For example, to a collector, a rare Beanie Baby stuffed animal may be worth $500; to the vast majority of people who do not collect Beanie Babies, the animal-shaped miniature bean bag is worth no more than 50 cents at a garage sale.

I suspect that if I were to report a stolen bicycle, the police and the courts would find my claim that the bicycle was worth $10,000 laughable, even if I was able to produce a receipt.  Were the thief caught, he would be rightly charged with a petty misdemeanor, as the legal system would recognize that bicycles truly are not very expensive to manufacture or purchase.

However, I am not an international superstar like Lance Armstrong.  American courts will only accept such an absurd claim when it pertains to a famous person’s property. 

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Due to the differing nature of the crimes, it can be difficult to compare the fairness of the penalties.  Though it would appear that the courts’ rulings are incredibly inconsistent and not an accurate reflection of the severity of the crimes.

Since criminal penalties escalate based upon the severity of a crime, one could attempt to quantify the wickedness of a crime and impact on its victim based upon the associated penalty.  

Donte Stallworth will serve 24 days in jail for killing a man, while Lee Crider was penalized with a three-year sentence for stealing bicycles.  Crider’s sentence is more than 45 times longer than Stallworth’s; this would indicate that the courts believe that three bicycles are 45 times more valuable than the life of Mario Reyes.

Likewise, if one assumes that the three bicycles stolen by Crider were valued at $10,000 each, one could extrapolate that the value of Reyes’ life is 1/45th of that of the bicycles.  Using this logic, the courts appraised the value of the 59-year-old man’s life at $667.

Anthony Abbate received a negligible sentence of two years probation for senselessly beating Karolina Obrycka.  While America courts place a great deal of value in overpriced bicycles, Obrycka’s emotional pain is considered worthless. 

It is no secret that the American judicial system has long favored those of wealth or privilege.  However, the discord between these three crimes and their associated penalties are indicative of a system that has spun out of control as judges haphazardly hand out sentences, completely discounting the severity of the crimes.   

When a judge’s decision is skewed in favor of a famous bicycle over a regular citizen, there is a serious problem.

Criminal sentencing is wildly inconsistent as judges punish criminals with blatant disregard for the severity of their crimes.  Three cases in the last month alone illustrate the shortcomings of the country’s judicial system.

Cleveland Browns wide receiver Donte Stallworth pleaded guilty to charges of DUI manslaughter for killing a man while driving drunk; he will serve 24 days in jail.

Chicago Police officer Anthony Abbate was found guilty of aggravated battery for a drunken incident where he belligerently threw a female bartender to the ground and beat her; he will serve two years probation, avoiding jail altogether. 

A man named Lee Crider pleaded no contest to charges of burglary and theft for stealing three bicycles, including one owned by world-famous douche-on-a-bike Lance Armstrong; he will serve three years in jail.

The incongruity of the punishments compared to the crimes is utterly staggering.

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In the early hours of Saturday, March 14, Stallworth was partying at a swanky bar in Miami Beach’s Fountainebleau hotel.  In a stroke of genius, the drunken athlete decided to drive his Bentley after leaving the bar.

At about 7:15 a.m., 59-year old Mario Reyes was crossing the street when he entered the path of Stallworth’s Bentley.  Stallworth kindly flashed his headlights to warn Reyes before fatally striking him with the luxury car.

Stallworth stopped at the scene of the accident and phoned police, a mitigating factor that contributed to his remarkably light sentence.

Stallworth pleaded guilty to DUI manslaughter and paid off Reyes’ family to avoid a lawsuit.  He was sentenced to 30 days in jail and 1,000 hours of community service.  He must undergo drug and alcohol testing, and his driver’s license was suspended until the end of time. 

Stallworth will serve only 24 days in jail, factoring in credit for time served and Florida’s generous sentencing rules.      

NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell suspended Stallworth indefinitely and will meet with the player to determine proper disciplinary action.  Ironically, the NFL’s punishment seems nearly as harsh as the court’s, considering that Stallworth was slated to earn more than $300,000 per game in 2009. 

Stallworth comes from a long line of athletes and celebrities with a DUI conviction on their resume.  His case had a far more tragic outcome than most stories, leading to the death of an innocent man. 

The Cleveland Browns were paying Stallworth nearly $5 million per year.  The day before the incident, he had received a $4.5 million roster bonus.  Yet he insisted upon driving his own luxury car in an inebriated state.  I fail to understand how celebrities with massive incomes fail to simply hire a driver to carry their drunken, famous asses around town (I’m looking at you, Jack Bauer).

While I have not properly researched the topic, I assume that the cost of hiring a driver wouldn’t have crippled Stallworth’s bank account.  I imagine that Stallworth would be able to find a reputable individual willing to accept $100,000 a year to drive him around Miami.  This would amount to less than two-hundredths of a percent of Stallworth’s annual salary, and would surely result in fewer dead Floridians.

Now, Stallworth’s license is suspended for life.  He will have to hire a driver to cart his soon-to-be-unemployed ass around town, and his conscious will never be clear.  His frugality has forever changed his life and has led to the end of another’s.

While I will not accuse the sentencing judge of being influenced by Stallworth’s celebrity, or the effectiveness of the high-priced lawyers that he undoubtedly threw mounds of money at,  I suspect that a nameless, middle-class person such as myself would have received a far harsher penalty for the same crime.

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Like most Chicago Police officers, Anthony Abbate was drunk with power.  On the night in February 2007, he was drunk with booze, too. 

Actually, by most accounts, Abbate was in state best described as “shit-faced.” I apologize for using such complex medical jargon.

Abbate was indignant when the tiny bartender, Polish immigrant Karolina Obrycka, refused him service.  He was appalled – after all, he was a police officer, entrusted to protect and serve the citizens of Chicago.  How dare a tiny Pollock bitch deny him another drink?

The proud civil servant attempted to go behind the bar to serve himself.  Obrycka requested that he leave, attempting to shove him back into the public area.  Abbate responded by mercilessly beating the small woman.

He knocked Obrycka down and began to pummel her, relentlessly kicking and punching her as she writhed on the floor.  Abbate would later testify that he felt threatened by the woman, who is less than half his size.    

The now-infamous incident was captured by closed circuit camera and replayed on news broadcasts to horrified viewers across the country. 

In a two-day bench trial, Cook County Circuit Judge John Fleming found Abbate guilty of one count of aggravated assault, dismissing the officer’s claim that he was acting in self defense.  The judge rationalized that Abbate did not abuse his position as an officer during the incident, so two counts of official misconduct were dismissed. 

Abbate was facing up to five years in prison.  During sentencing, Fleming spared Abbate a jail sentence, opting for two years of probation instead.    

Anthony Abbate is a free man.  Karolina Obrycka is a changed woman, fearing police and insulted that Abbate refused to apologize for senselessly beating her.

Fleming explained his decision by noting, “If I believed sending Anthony Abbate to prison would stop people from getting drunk and hitting other people, I’d sentence him to the maximum.”

The judge failed to consider that Abbate is a public servant, entrusted with the serving and protecting the citizens of Chicago.  Such a violent outburst is an egregious breach of public trust.  In many ways, Abbate should have been held to a higher standard than his civilian counterparts.  Instead, he was let off with a slap on the wrist. 

Predictably, there is little public outcry over the verdict.  Chicagoans have grown accustomed public officials and servants abusing their powers with complete impunity.  When Abbate was arrested, Chicago police brazenly attempted to charge him with a misdemeanor and officers later blocked the press from questioning Abbate after court appearance.    

These blatant stonewalling tactics, combined with the fallout from a variety of other police department scandals involving abuse of authority, led to the early retirement of Chicago Police Superintendent Philip Cline in 2007.

Yet Cline was only one cog in the vast Machine that operates Chicago and Cook County.  He took the fall and was replaced, but little changed. More than in any other city in America, public figures in Chicago can get away with murder – or at least beating the living shit out of a defenseless female bartender. 

Favoritism clearly played a role in the ruling of Cook County Circuit Judge John Fleming.  I am certain that I would serve jail time if I administered a drunken beat-down to a bartender.  Fleming should be removed from the bench for sentencing a violent Chicago cop as if he were a shoplifter. 

Unfortunately, this will never happen.  In Cook County, when a judge’s term expires, they run unopposed for retention.  As long as sixty percent of voters vote to retain Fleming, he will keep his job.

Apathetic Cook County voters will pay little attention to their ballots, vote for Fleming and plead ignorance.  Fleming will keep his spot on the bench and continue to rule in favor of powerful individuals like Anthony Abbate. 

And the machine will roll on.

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Continue on to the stirring conclusion of American Injustice System.