Archive for the ‘sorry about how gross this is’ Category

bill roentgen appreciation day

August 26, 2008

Went to the hand doc today who took x-rays and it looks like I won’t need a pin. I am now in something they called a clamdigger cast, which is great, because nobody digs clams like I do. The only bad thing about this cast is it will not get through my suit coat sleeve, so I have to go to depositions with one sleeve on and the other side draped over me like I am a crippled soldier or fucking James Brown doing the cape routine.

Before that I was at a new dentist. They also took x-rays (of my teeth). I have not been for two years. That is because my last dentist was a eastern European stone cold bitch who made me feel like a periodontal Pol Pot because of the bad shape my gums were in. She told me i had ACUTE NECROTIZING ULCERATIVE GINIVITIS which had led to bone loss and scared the living fuck out of me. When I told my new dentist that he laughed. “You’ve never had it. You would have had pus coming out of your mouth and your breath would smell a mile away. In 7 years at this location I’ve never seen a case of it. That’s ridiculous. Your gums are the same as 9 out of 10 people out there.” So I have some mild gingivitis but they gave me some chlorhexidine mouthwash to take care of it.

I am so pissed at that former dentist, and my wrath is threefold:

  • I do not like being lied to,
  • I missed a week of drinking because I was on unnecessary antibiotics including metronidazole which will KILL YOU IF YOU HAVE ONE SIP OF BEER while on it. Allegedly.
  • My dramatic blog post about that dentist visit, from my last blog, which I thought was very clever, is now completely vitiated. However I reproduce it here, in the hopes that somebody will finally enjoy my Phil Niekro joke:
Cheerful Update
Went to the dentist, finally. I have what’s known, colloquially, as “trench mouth,” which is not to be confused with “gutter mouth,” with which I am also afflicted. Any kind of excavation-mouth, I have it.

Trench mouth sounds better, to me, than “acute necrotizing gingivitis” which is what the dentist called it.* Apparently the condition is caused by stress. Severe stress. The kind of stress you might experience if you were sitting in a trench in WWI and shells were exploding and limbs were falling off and your buddies were rotting in the mud next to you, hence the name.

I’m trying to figure out where this particular stress in my life came from. People who know me know I worry about just about everything but really the worrying has been better than it used to be. I’ve had this gum problem for months now. I must have been more stressed in Virginia than I thought, even though I didn’t basically do anything for the whole time I was there. Including brushing my teeth properly, I guess. I don’t know. Is a general malaise = stress?

The best part is, it’s the first time in a while where I’ve already booked myself two social events in one weekend, and I can’t drink because I’m on antibiotics.

*Not to be confused with “acute niekrotizing gingivitis,” in which you start to develop knuckles on your gums.

So then the third big thing today was the first of my two fantasy football drafts. This year I did something different, which is, actually prepare for the draft. Usually I just sort of have a loose list in my head based on faulty memories of last season and watching Bears preseason games. Not this year. This time around I cooked up a massive spreadsheet that calculated both the 2007 actual player value based on my fantasy league’s scoring, and the projected 2008 value based on professional predictions. I then took the 2007 value, and ran a sort of ghetto mean regression based on the values found on this site.

I didn’t stick to it rigorously, because of issues like bye weeks, subsequent trades, intuition, contrary conventional wisdom and naturally the latest injury reports, which of course once again involve x-rays, and thus I have my theme for this post.

This was a keeper league where you could keep up to 4 players but I only kept 2 due to some fucktarded trades at the end of last year, including Jamal Lewis for Vince Young, which as you can see, I remedied:

The keepers were Westbrook and Hoshamazoli. I am feeling optimistic about Witten, who I had, in my spreadsheet, as ranked even above Gates, Kellen Winslow, and Tony Gonzalez (who went surprisingly low). I would have liked to have gotten Rashard Mendenhall but I am happy about Rice. Anyway. The other league is 14 teams which is much deeper than I’m used to; that draft is next week.

EDIT: For the first time ever I have drafted a team with NO BEARS on it. This was on purpose.


blog clearinghouse

June 10, 2008

i have 16 draft posts that i haven’t completed. some of them eventually may turn into something, but most of them are dead ends. they are presented herein, with minimal editing and no transitions. on a dvd, this would be called bonus material. here it’s just shit.

[post #1 – untitled]

A girl I talked to Friday night told me I’m a hater. I started to disagree with her but given that on Thursday I changed my facebook status to “Pete is a hater” I felt mildly insincere in my argument.

Let’s embrace it. Here’s some things that I’m hating on currently.

Bob Howry – [ed.: at this point i passed out while searching for pictures evidencing my claim that Howry looks like the guy who played Frank Nitti in the Untouchables]

[post #2 – untitled]

I am sort of obsessed with the “List of Demands” song (“I got a list of demands, written on the palms of my hands.”) which is in this Nike ad now. It’s not so much that I like the song — I guess it’s fine — it’s just that I am generally anti-Nike (for no good reason) and I’ve really gotten into the “i got a list of X, written on the [subpart] of my [thing that rhymes with X]” meme. Today while dealing with privilege logs at work, for example, it was “I got a list of privileged docs, written on the toes of my socks.” This is the sort of thing I do to provide me some fleeting amusement as I pass the grimly hollow moments of my life until the pallid green hand of Death pulls me into the abyss. (I was this close to titling this post “I got a list of complaints, written on the base of my taint,” but in light of the Gravitas Initiative I held back.)

  • “If it is not broke, don’t fix it” is a phrase that somebody needs to pass along to the sloped-foreheads at Coca-Cola. The Coke people have recently implemented a new cap on their 20 oz products. It is smaller and not as ridged as the old one. My clumsy fingers slip and slide all over the damn thing.

[post #3 – jobs i think i might be good at]

2. antipope

[post #4 – untitled]

gold card.

And just to balance the vibe a little, here’s something I don’t hate: an Aronson Furniture commercial from the 80s. Here is what you need to know about Aronson Furniture:
1. It is was the home of the credit connection.
2. It hasd the catchiest jingle this side of Rockenbach Chevrolet, which will probably be featured soon on this blog.
Aronson went tits-up a couple of years ago – perhaps Aronson’s subprime furniture loan crisis triggered our current economic woes? We may never know.

I think I heard the Aronson jingle for the first time in the late 80s, on my way back from a Cub Scout meeting with my dad. It was probably on WBBM Newsradio 78, during a Blackhawks broadcast (not really news radio, are you, you lying scum). It has been stuck in my head for about 20 years.

[post #5 – untitled cubs post]

Every year there are a number of Storylines when it comes to the Cubs. Here are this year’s Storylines:

1. The first storyline isn’t specific to this year. Every year the #1 storyline is that the Cubs have not won a World Series in X-1908, where X is the current year on the Gregorian calendar. This storyline is particularly poignant this year, when performing the X-1908 calculation yields the number of fingers that non-mutant, non-table-saw-abusing humans have, multiplied by the number of toes such humans have. (This does not apply in Ethiopia, where it is only 2000, and accordingly I am telling my parents that I am not going to be a pre-med anymore. Political science? What is this political science? I would be more proud of you if you was prostitute than if you were in politics*).

2. Another important storyline is the arrival of Kosuke Fukudome. The most fun part of this storyline will be attending a game in mid-August with a girl who figures out that Fukudome looks kind of like “Fuck you dome” or, if she is gunning for the Nobel prize in literature, “Fuck you, do me” and thus catching up with what every man in Chicago figured out last December.

* verbatim quote. Mom actually busted out the English for this one.

the maturity post (or, tote a shitty rump)

March 24, 2008

So this is a little late, as it relates to events from my trip to Park City last December, but it kept slipping my mind until I totally forgot about it. Then some of the parties that were present on the night in question brought it up Saturday night, so here we go.

There’s this bar in Park City. It’s called O’Shucks and it’s the smelliest bar ever.

Here is a list of the top 5 smelliest non-bathroom places I’ve ever been to, for reference:

1. Gary, IN (all)
2. O’Schucks, Park City, UT
3. “The Pallarino,” Chi Phi Fraternity house, Evanston IL.
4. Delmar Lounge, St. Louis, MO
5. Streeter’s Tavern, Chicago, IL, pre- smoking ban.

To be honest I’m not sure that O’Schucks even fits the “non-bathroom” criterion. But that is neither here nor there.

Anyway, I enjoyed this bar immensely due to the free peanuts, enthusiastically pro-Motorhead bartenders, and beer served by the goblet. The real topper though was the two Stella Artois signs with letters you could rearrange.

The thing about loud bars is I often like being in them, but I don’t like talking to people in them, because my hearing is not particularly good and I usually tend to miss most of what somebody is saying even if my ear is right next to their mouth. Also I dislike most people I meet. The result is that I often engage in activities at bars that don’t require me to carry on a conversation. Most of the time this means watching whatever is on TV, be it football, clips of snowmobiling crashes, movies I can’t hear, or infomercials. Other times it means beer pong, or jukeboxes, or pinball machines.

This time, all I had was the Stella signs. I went to work.


It started with a simple phrase like “WE EAT MALE GOO.” I think this picture was taken by one of my compatriots before I finished the phrase.


Later there were declarations of flatulent intent. Ignore the L, T, M, and O from a recently dismembered phrase.


There were some people from Minnesota, or Ohio, or Georgia, can’t remember which, next to me, and they got pretty into it. A middle-aged woman shrewdly spotted the ability to spell out SMEGMA which lead to some good ones we failed to photograph. However, the guy standing next to me in the below picture was a total idiot. He would tell me things to write, and then laugh because he thought he had come up with something incredibly clever. I can’t remember any of the specifics, they were so dumb. But I mean, just think, how dumb does it have to be if the guy who just wrote ME SO GASEE doesn’t even think it qualifies as the lowest level of humor?


I started to hit my stride.


I just noticed that my hair looks bad even in pitch dark. I’d like to emphasize that the above is strictly an artistic statement and does not necessarily reflect the predilections of the author. I won’t disavow the next one though:


There were a few others we missed and I can no longer remember. These were all at one sign, but there was another one at the other end of the bar. I think it said something like WE NEED POW POW NOW, pow pow referring to fresh snow. I had been looking at that sign all night and could not think of anything to do with it.

But after ?? beers I grabbed the S from the sign by me and walked to the other sign. The whole night had been building to this moment. I had something to say. It was going to be powerful. It was going to be eloquent and transcendentally revelatory. It was, quite simply, going to blow some Park City minds.


There was no topping this. We stumbled home, having left the other bar patrons to contemplate this most fundamental truth. We woke up smelling like ass.

Oh by the way this post wasn’t really safe for work, but you know, live a little.

egg-haters, mount up

February 21, 2008

I’ve never been a fan of eggs. I’m not really certain why. I like to say it’s because eating eggs is like eating an abortion, but I mostly just say that for shock value. Whether they are hard-boiled, fried, scrambled, or whatever, I have always found eggs to be disconcerting.

It’s not limited to poultry eggs either. I’m relatively new to sushi and I do not like the radioactive-colored things they stick on all my rolls. I also don’t like that there’s a million names for this stuff. They need a million names for it so they can trick you into eating it. “I am avoiding eggs, roe, and caviar,” you say to yourself. “I’ll just get this roll with tobiko on it.” Which for some reason I confused with daikon radish. I am not particularly cultured.

I would imagine that a good part of my aversion to fish eggs comes from a fun day in junior high science class. The task was cutting up a fish and identifying all its various fish parts. (As an aside, I don’t really understand the point of dissection. The fish was particularly useless, but a few years later I cut up a cat and I can’t think of any insights into mammalian anatomy that I couldn’t have gotten out of a book except for the following 1) i know what a colon full of catshit feels like 2) DO NOT CUT OPEN A COLON FULL OF CATSHIT 3) cats have cholesterol too and 4) formaldehyde smells awful) Anyway. The fish was hard as a rock of course, having been soaked in formaldehyde since the 50s, and all we had to equip ourselves with was a scalpel blade the size of a Chiclet. Eventually my partner Paul (my jamaican friend who wasn’t allowed at my house notbecausehe’sblackbutbecauseithinkhisfamilyisinvolvedinsomethingshady, thanks mom) jabbed the blade in there and just ripped the belly open, only to find that this was in fact a would-be mama fish, and her bright yellow fish eggs sprang forth as though they were Athena springing from Zeus’ head, if Athena was tiny and yellow and just thoroughly disgusting, and instead of one of her, there were millions. The stuff got all over Paul, and a lot of it on me too. The best part was trying to identify the organs after this. To borrow something from a pop song I heard once, they were all yellow.


Here is the inspiration from tonights post, when I thought a simple california roll would be devoid of fish eggs, but was wrong. Thanks for nothing, Bistro Pacific. (Don’t worry this was not my entire order). Btw I ordered from Bistro Pacific because it’s the only sushi place on CEO Deliveries and I’m too lazy to actually pick up the phone. And to be honest I’m not that big a fan of sushi. It’s just that I am headed for an early grave if I keep eating cheeseburgers and chicken parm as often as I do.