Thought Leadership

Below is a note a Facebook friend (King Man) sent me tonight, sort of a follow up to some he sent last Friday when he was drunker then Cooter Brown.  He knows how to have a good time and good times have no problem finding him. Oh, the photo doesn’t have anything to do with the topic. I’ve just always thought Lisa Loeb was (is) cute as a button.

*Ach, I just wrote u a novel and erased it by accident. It’s Fri — another 30 of Ice house…govt auditors left this week at work—got a gold star,police raided dude that lives upsatirs shot and killed 2 of his dawgs and tossed the joint — but that’s all they found…3 lbs, they said it was for pesonal use. They shot & killed 2 of his dogs in process and I sleep thru it down in my place. 10:30 at nite!! Then i get a girl on CTA thursday —reading bad girls of the bible –she sez excuse me — i thinks she gonna get up? HELL NO –she starts cuttung the cheese, WTF. Y do i need a beer by FRIDAY? excuse spelling —i aint gonna correct in case i delete again/ BTW — if u r still in chi area—house of glunz has a free scotch thing saturday 2-4…division & wells./

 

Wow

WARM SPRINGS, Ga. – A Georgia woman is in jail after police say she forced her son to kill his pet hamster with a hammer as punishment for bad grades.

The sheriff of rural Meriwether County told the Atlanta Journal-Constitution Thursday that the 12-year-old boy told his teacher about the killing. The teacher reported it to the Division of Family and Child Services, who contacted police.

Sheriff Steve Whitlock said 38-year-old Lynn Middlebrooks Geter of Warm Springs faces one charge each of animal cruelty, child cruelty and battery.

The sheriff’s office said she remained in the Meriwether County jail early Friday. It was not immediately known if she had a lawyer.

Meriwether County is located about 90 minutes southwest of Atlanta.

 

You gotta be kidding me

I went to a wake last week for man my dad served with in the Army. Dad doesn’t like to go to these things alone, so I went with him. Besides, Irish wakes are usually more fun than a Cubs game.

The showing was in Park Ridge, so my old man said he wanted to have a drink or two at Curragh on Northwest before we went. Sure enough, some of his other Army buddies were already at the bar putting back a few when we arrived. I knew most of these guys from various functions around town, christenings, weddings, block partys, etc.

We made it to the funeral home around 6:30 and it was almost full. Little old ladies trying to remember the names of all these strange people, kids running around waiting to be smacked, told to sit down and be respectful, people waiting in line to visit with the deceased and the family, and in the back we had the family’s friends, mostly cops and suits. Of course, before we could get in line, Dad being Dad, tells me to “get those damn kids to sit down and be respectful” and then join him in the line.

So, we’re standing in line behind an old lady who’s claiming to be a descendent of Anton Cermak, when I see the Monsignor move, exposing the widow and a guy in a wheelchair of sorts, who looked like Stephen Hawkins, except in much worse shape if you can imagine. I knew the woman was the widow, but who was this guy? Dad said “John” is the youngest of the five children and left it at that. However, I had never heard of the guy before tonight.

After maybe ten minutes we’re greeted by the widow, who Dad and I talked to for a few minutes, then approached the deceased and said a prayer. We then went to the back to join the group of family friends and have a drink. It is an Irish wake you know. So, we spent the next hour or so asking about various people we haven’t seen in a while, who’s kids are doing what now, so on and so forth. But the entire time I kept catching myself looking over at “John” wondering if he was born with this way or if he was in an accident, and if so, how bad of shape was he really in.

Just before 8:00 the place starts to empty, so Dad and I go over to say goodnight to the widow and pay our last respects. As soon as we walked up, the widow asks Dad if he remembers John, Dad smiles and says “Of course, how are you John”.  Well, John is in bad enough shape that he can barely move his eyes to look up at my Dad. Now, I’m sick to my stomach knowing John will never have the opportunity to jump for joy once our Bears bring home another title or run down to the corner to catch a cab, so he won’t be late for a party, so on and so on.

Then the widow puts her arm around John, looks at me and says “John’s been through so much in his life, he’s lucky to be alive.” She went on to explain that John was twelve when he fell out of a second story window and injured his spine, causing him to use a wheelchair. Then when he was twenty-two, the van transporting him to a medical appointment was blindsided and John was subsequently paralyzed from the neck down, plus he’s had several operations on his brain, which explained the scars. THEN, two years ago, he was diagnosed with shingles. But that’s not all. The widow goes on to state that she calls him “Lucky”, because he’s sooooo lucky to be alive. That’s right, they call him “Lucky”.

 

If you are not here, please raise your hand

I was hanging out at the Green Mill last night, when I got a call on my cell around 1:30, and it’s Marty. He’s been out with his skank girlfriend, they’re too drunk to find their car, and they’re asking if I can come up there and help them find it. Sure, I got nothing better to do, like the Elisa Cuthbert I’ve been drinking with the last ninety minutes.

When is this guy going to get it right? First off, the Courtney Love-wannabe skank he’s been dating the last year and a half thinks he’s sexy sporting the Emo look. Um, I don’t think dressing like a confused sixteen-year-old boy is the best thing for a thirty-six year old man, but what do I know. What started out as a near-sighted date, really took off once they once they went to Lollapalooza. He was gone for three days and came back looking brainwashed. Since then he’s all about “Skank”, as we call her. But, frankly, some people may look at him and think she was made-to-order for him. As long as I’ve known him, he’s been the one to do something really weird or stupid. I guess to bring attention to himself.

A couple of summers ago me and a bunch of guys (incl Marty) went down to Evansville, IN to gamble on their boat and at a nearby horse track in Kentucky. So, we’re at the track surrounded by legions of rednecks and we’re all three sheets in the wind from drinking beer and smoking cheap cigars. We had a box next to about fifteen 4-wheel-driving,  deer-huntin’, possum-eatin’ union boys and we (both realms of reality) had been having a great time buying rounds and talking football, mma, Megan Fox vs. Halle Berry, and the regular macho what-not, when Marty has a fit with our server because he can’t get one of his vaginally-challenged mixed drinks. Don’t get me wrong, But I don’t think even Tony Soprano would stand there and try to order a Cosmopolitan at a horse track in Kentucky, literally, “down by the river”. Am I right or am I right?

Back to this morning, I explained to my Elisa Cuthbert what was going on and she offered to ride up there with me before I could even say “sorry”.  Fifteen minutes later we’re standing outside looking into Ricky G’s on Devon (cool little place if you have the chance to go) and we see Marty and Skank making out like a couple of college kids.

I grab Marty and Skank, throw them into our cab and got them home safely. But I had to pay them back for possibly screwing up my blue light time with Elisa. As Marty, Skank and Elisa were in the kitchen, I went to the bathroom to pull a switcharoo. We found them making out, they made out the entire cab ride home and she had a “wardrobe malfunction” on the elevator. Now, I’m no genius, but I was sure they had a 99.9% chance of having sex.  So, me being me, I opened his bathroom cabinet, emptied his little KY bottle and filled it with his Germ X Sanitizer that was on the sink. I haven’t heard from him yet, so maybe they enjoyed it.

Since writing mea culpa the other night I had the urge to do something to somebody deserving, but I would never have guessed that it would only take a couple of days to accomplish. You may think I’m an asshole for doing it, but, in reality, it could nothing but help kill a few germs I’m sure she has.

 

mea culpa

For some reason I can’t explain, I’ve recently had an urge to apologize to some of the people I’ve messed with over the past twenty or so years. No, it’s not part of a twelve-step program or anything of the sort. It’s just a few poor bastards who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

To the girls who left their camera in my friend’s car at the Little 500 back in the day and I took the liberty of taking a few very… um…. candid shots. I’m sorry. I’m sorry the camera ran out of film.

To the uber large, steroid-eating, shot-putting freak who lived in Sandison Hall that I sent into ‘roid rages whenever I prank called him. Usually after me and my buddy’s came home drunk each weekend. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I don’t remember your name or I would still be doing it.

To the guy whose shoes I stole while he was passed out on the lobby couch at the Holiday Inn in Jasper, Indiana. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t take my girlfriend’s lipstick, eye shadow and mascara, and make you look like a tranny. You would have had a much better story to tell your friends twenty years later.

To the dude on the L back in ’94 who had obvious issues with people touching him, even ever so slightly. I snuggled in next to you and made a point of exaggerating my lean every time we took a curve and tapping you on your arm and asking you for help with the NY Times crossword, making you howl like a dog and claw yourself. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t get that on tape.

To the Eagle Brook Country Club for peeing in your pool. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t have diarrhea, you elitist assholes.

Ok, I feel much better now that I got that off my chest.

 

Haiti Relief

CARE is deploying additional emergency team members to the devastated city of Port-au-Prince in Haiti, where the worst earthquake in 200years destroyed houses and left thousands homeless. While the exact death toll from yesterday’s 7.0-magnitude quake is not yet known, it is expected to be catastrophic. Prime Minister Jean-Max Bellerive told CNN on Wednesday that hundreds of thousands may be dead.

Early reports from the media and CARE staff report that the capital city is in ruins. Most of the buildings have collapsed, including hospitals, homes and schools. The Red Cross estimates that approximately 3 million people have been affected by the disaster.

President René Préval states, “It is a catastrophe.”

Do the right thing