Archive for the ‘personal’ tag

Dedicated to my momma

bokeen vs the Twitter pharmacists

Pharmacists are contemptible human beings.

I did not always detest pharmacists.  I used to view them as highly paid, socially inept individuals who simply dispensed medicine, and little more.  While I felt that their white lab coats are unnecessarily pretentious, I never took issue with these government-sanctioned pill pushers.

That changed on Sunday, June 7, 2009.

On that warm summer day, boqueen mentioned to me that she was out of birth control pills.  Birth control, or “baby killers,” as I like to refer to them, are an essential part of boqueen’s diet.  She likes to say that she is “staying not pregnant,” but I feel that this vastly understates the importance of the matter.  Fathering a child would be absolutely devastating to my lifestyle.

I do not want a helpless, dependant fecal factory with stumpy arms in my life.  I do not want to be burdened with the requirement of rocking, comforting or changing the diapers of a small, temperamental, light brown mammal while I watch a Bulls game or attempt to record a podcast.  I do not want the smell of infant excrement lingering in our dining room while I attempt to enjoy a meal that I prepared.  I certainly don’t want to be interrupted by the little bastard crying while I am performing oral sex on his mother.

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My future wife, the hot mess

“Nothing good happens after midnight” is a maxim that is commonly embraced by parents and other elderly types.

This old adage is meant to convey the benefits of retiring to bed at an early hour. The phrase is often used by parents who worry that the twilight hours will expose their children to the unsavory aspects of life, such as premarital sex, alcohol, drugs and Mexicans.

I thoroughly reject the notion that “nothing good happens after midnight,” as I am a nocturnal being. Every morning, I begrudgingly peel myself out of bed for work, spending the first part of the day in a semiconscious haze. I am a staunch proponent of early evening naps, and I am most productive late at night.

My girlfriend, boqueen, is also a night owl. However, I do not know if she also disagrees with the statement “nothing good happens after midnight,” as she has a tendency to get drunk and black out in the early morning hours. It is difficult to assess the quality of what occurs after midnight when one has no recollection of the events in question.

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More things that I hate that everyone else seems to think are so fucking wonderful

If I were a positive person, I would not have anything to write about.

Fortunately, I am an irritable malcontent, which enables me to churn out thousands of words each week.

Last summer, I decided to write a list of things that I despise.  I soon realized that such a list would be incredibly expansive, as there are very few things that I actually find enjoyable; notable examples include sex, drugs, rock & roll and rainbows.

To pare the list down to a more manageable size, I focused on areas where my opinion is at odds with conventional wisdom.  The final list was titled Things that I hate that everyone else seems to think are so fucking wonderful.  The list was far from comprehensive, so I proudly present the second installment in what will likely become a lengthy series.

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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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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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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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Running in a marathon is a symptom of mental illness

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

I am referring to the Chicago Marathon. 

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

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

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bokeen’s cross country adventure, part III

This is part three of my epic journal from my trip to San Jose.  Check out part one and part two.

11:17
It has become clear that the airplane will not be filled to capacity.  I had expected to be sandwiched between two other passengers, but I am thrilled that able to slide over to the vacant window seat.   I could care less about sitting by the window, for I am not a child.  However, I am happy that an empty seat separates me and the man to my left, creating a buffer zone of personal space.

11:20
I fail to understand why pilots feel it necessary to announce their name and the copilot’s name before takeoff.  Perhaps individuals that travel frequently make note the names for future reference.

“Captain John Stevenson?  Oh, he’s good!  I’m a big fan of his work!”

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