HERE'S A STORY ABOUT ME *ALMOST* GETTING IN A FIGHT

Although I do NOT consider myself a "tough guy" or a "bad ass" by any means, I do have an inherent predication to protect people I care about. Family, friends, co-workers...little old ladies crossing the street, I got their collective backs. I call this my "Latent Raging Mommy Gene". 

Case in point, a few weeks ago this Russiasn guy comes into to work and starts promptly being inappropriate, in that he was hitting on EVERY woman in the place, in particular the Bartender/My Boss. I was not fucking having it, but since A: I'm still on probation, and B: it's not my job to bounce creepers (anymore). 

Fast forward a week; a friend of mine was visiting from out of town and we decided to take advantage of my generous work discount on food and drinks. Everything was good until...CREEPER comes in. My mood immediately soured. I did not wish to interact with him, but he kept bothering my friend and I, and also, every woman in the bar. Again. 

I'm not a doctor of any sort, but that's some serious pathological behavior, even for a recent immigrant. Regardless, I was NOT having it. The general manager, aka. my boss thankfully intervened...twice, because, seriously, I probably would have gone to jail if I did what I was going to do. Which was to shove his arm behind his shoulders and push him out onto the cold sidewalk. 

Keep in mind, I abhor violence, not a fan, however I have in the past been trained to spot certain problematic individuals, who respond not to words, but to physical action. And this guy could have easily kicked my ass. But I didn't and still don't care. I'll throw myself in front of a fucking train if it means protecting people I care about.    

Said boss later thanked me, but also reiterated they don't want me to interfere in that way. A week later, guess who came back? Creeper. The Bartender he is in love with had to hide in the basement for 2 hours while my other boss attempted to reason with the guy, which was futile at best. And the police (which were called) were of no use. But I kept my distance. 

Hope I don't see him on the street. Because I don't know what I will do if I do. 

MY NEW DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBOR CAN FUCK OFF

First conversation we had was today

ME: (Looking down the stairs): "Hi, I'm Justin!"

HER:" I know, you played the Black Keys really loud on Sunday night".

ME: "Yes, sorry, I didn't know you moved in...that place has been vacant for over a year".

HERE: "..."

ME:"OK, then..."

This new neighbor proceeded to mobilize the singular washer'dryer for the last 48 hours. I did not complain but I did remove her shit when she didn't and I need clean clothes for the weekend, specifically for work.

And then tonight, she had the balls to complain about my music again. BITCH. PLEASE. I don't want to start a war, but let's just say I feel a bit of entitlement living here as long as I have, and if she did not relize how thin these walls our..well, I shall teach her.

FUCKING VULTURES

Today Roomie and I had a very productive morning; she feed her friend's cat, I got my glasses adjusted, library (so excited to read "Secret Historian"), cleaned, etc, whatever. Also emptied our mailbox for the first time since Friday. Holy Shit. Our mail person must hate us.

Anyways, in regards to my recent troubles, I received no less than 18 letters from attorneys seeking to represent me. Thanks...but no thanks. I already have an attorney on retainer. It disturbs me that the State of Illinois apparently sells lists of people they charge with crimes to marketing firms, that then in turn re-sell that information to other marketing firms. Fucking Assholes.

I should know. I used to work for a company that did something very similar. And I hate them. A cruel irony, indeed. But FUCK them. Who knew there exists a cottage industry of feeding off of others misfortune. Perhaps I'm simply that naive.

PS - My new banker is smoking cute. Tall, skinny, dark hair, right up my alley. And he lives near the bar I work at. Random, I know. What a strange week. "First round is on me" were my parting words to him today. And I meant it. Am I a vulture too?

I TOTALLY GOT SOME FROM A WOMAN LAST NIGHT

Anyone who has ever worked at a bar can relate to having to deal with drunk people. Our resident raging alcoholic is named Stacy. She lives just across the street so she's present on a daily basis. We keep an eye on her because although she seems fine when she comes in, she goes from zero to FUCKING HAMMERED in space of an hour.

Last night she seemed cool, was hanging with her friend eating pizza and sucking down Ciroc and soda. Out of no where I hear a BOOM! noise and look over...and Stacy had managed to face plant herself backwards, ass over end when she fell off her bar stool. About this time everyone in the bar decided it was time for her to go home (this was after her 2nd drink).

The bartender I work with, tiny cute girl says she's going to help her friend take Stacy home, but I wasn't about hear that noise, so I volunteered. Stacy's friend and I are trying to carry this lump of drunkenness down the street without her falling over (which she did, twice). I really didn't mind...until she started kissing me.

I mean really? Did she really think we were gonna hook up or something? Worse thing was, I couldn't really stop her because I'm trying to carry her, so I guess she sensed her opportunity and began kissing and licking my neck. Oh and even better, her curious hands wondered amongst Justin Jr. Land. I was not amused.

But we got her home, and I think I said something like "have fun with that" and sprinted back to the bar where I took a whore's bath in the bathroom sink, then without word, poured myself as double shot of Jameson. But the rest of the night went well. I got to play lots of dirty hip hop, hit on cute guys and do more shots with the restaurant crew from the next door.

Oh the charmed life I lead.

I GOT YELLED AT BY A MARINE TODAY

Earlier today I embarked upon a specific tradition of mine, one common to those of us that are fucked over by this Midwestern winter weather...and also those that like CARS!

Modesty was in vogue this year, and as such, the "hottest" ride I peeped was none other than the Navistar MRAP! It wasn't the sexiest car on the floor, but easily the most impressive.

If you look closely, there are signs on the side of that beast saying "NO INTERIOR PHOTOGRAPHY" which lead me to believe that I was cool to check out the inside of this thing.

WRONG!

First off, the door weighed at least a ton, literally, if not more. The "funny" involves after DUDE asked me to back off [SIR DO NOT ENTER THIS VEHICLE!!!], which I did...but he tried to do the "slam the phone down" equivalent(with a cell phone-so not satisfying); the difference being, DUDE could barely close the door I was NOT supposed to open!

FIND A FUCKING CHURCH BASEMENT

All my fly bitches like (dirty money, dirty money)

All my stripper bitches like (dirty money, dirty money)

All my college hoes like (dirty money, dirty money)

Dont it spend so right? (dirty money, dirty money)

Clipse "Dirty Money"

Last month my upstairs neighbor moved out; she was cool and all, but a total theater nerd (not that there is anything wrong with that) but she utilized her apartment as a rehearsal space, which meant I was subjected to an annoying cycle of people singing and dancing, right above my head.

Obviously I was excited when she moved out, but that excitement quickly faded when I became aware that the new occupants are ALSO theater nerds who think their apartment doubles as a rehearsal space. UGH X 10!

Mostly I can put up with it, the noise that is. But this afternoon I had nothing to do except catch up on silly TV shows, specifically Parks & Recreation (I love you Amy Poehler!) only to be rudely interrupted by the troupe upstairs stomping in circles for a fucking hour.

There was only one real solution I could think of, which was to bust the classic Clipse's album "Hell Hath No Fury", which is an ode to dealing cocaine, at ear splitting decibels. My brother's old Awia speakers shook for their very life, but it was worth it. Plus, that record kicks all kinds of ass. I mean, it's like the PERFECT soundtrack to a pleasant night out to a seedy strip club.

The moral of this story is: DO NOT come between a gay man and Amy Poehler. I'll cut anyone who tries (figuratively that is). Or simply subject you to lyrics like "Bagging up grams at the higher dough/The news called it crack/I called it Diet Coke (Ohhh!)".

POPPERS? NO THANKS...

One of the more colorful stories/experiences from this past weekends' jaunt to Fire Island (aka, the gayest place on earth) involved me making out with the oldest, sorry, most "mature" man I have ever taken the pants off of. 

At the start of the night, my friend and I were waiting for a water taxi to take us to the Pines, when I struck up a conversation with a handsome guy, probably in his late 40's/early 50's. Nice guy....we talked about how this was my first time to the island, and the weather and blah, blah, blah. 

After my friend and her friends checked out this cabaret show, we took the last water taxi back to Cherry Grove (where we were staying). Handsome Guy was also waiting for the boat, and inquired about each other's evenings...

While on the rocky boat ride back, he did little things, like touch my thigh to empathize a point he was trying to make. Since I was drunk as hell I didn't mind, and I also, since I was drunk, I was being my charming self. 

Once we got back to the Grove, my friends and her friend went out for (more) drinks. Once they were tired I decided...WELL, WHY THE FUCK NOT? and knocked on Handsome Guy's door [NOTE: I'm not a stalker...earlier in the day I noticed his place was directly across from the place I was staying at]. 

He peeked through the curtains, and looked surprised, to say the least, to see me standing on his porch. Eagerly, he let me in, and after, um, 30 seconds of small talk we were making out on his bed. Pants came off and we were having fun...

...until, that is, he suggested we do some Poppers...to have "more fun". I was having plenty of fun as is, and didn't feel the need to add shady drugs into the mix. But he was insistent, and although drunk as all hell, I held my ground, got up, and put my pants on and walked the fuck out of that scene. 

FUCK THAT NOISE.  

DON'T TAKE THIS THE WRONG WAY...

...but I could give a flying FUCK about your new shoes, your new car or the "awesome" vacation you just took. I'll direct my frustration convienently at this guy I worked the door with last week at work. "John" is a really nice college kid, who happens to work at a fancy-pants sneaker boutique in Wicker Park. 

His biggest concern in life is how best to subtley advertise the new $200 pair of kicks fresh from Japan without tipping off the owners/employees of the neighboring sneaker boutiques. GOD FORBID THEY LEARN WHEN THEY WILL DROP THEM! 

And here I am, coughing my lungs out, sick as shit, without access to healthcare (i.e., no insurance), 8 years his senior, and with this shitty 1 night a week "job" making $50, and grateful for it. I'm trying to make fucking RENT and EAT; I care NOT about your mylar infused boots that were made specially for YOU in Italy. DICK!

UGH, this is why I haven't been blogging, as I doubt anyone wants to listen to me bitch. [END OF BITCH-FEST-TRANSMISSION.]

YESTERDAY AT THE LIBRARY

Whoa! 3rd post of the day! You must be sick of me by now, but whatever. I have this one quick story to tell about the FUCKING PRICK that works at the library near me. 

Earlier, I had picked up a pass to go to the Art Institute (attention Chicagoan's: if you just get off your ass and visit your local library you can get a pass to see almost any museum for FREE - YAY for culture!).

Although I didn't have to return the pass until next Wednesday, I thought I would be a nice guy and drop it off after I used the it so that someone else can enjoy it.

While standing in line I struck up a conversation with the woman in line behind me. Having noticed she was struggling to carry the mountain of books in her arms, I offered her my place in line. She was thankful...and then the library clerk LOST HIS SHIT. (BTW - I'm only mildly exaggerating when I say he looked like the Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons...) 

Here's what happened next: 

COMIC BOOK GUY: "NEXT!"

WOMEN WHO I GAVE MY PLACE IN LINE TO: "Hello-(abruptly cut off by COMIC BOOK GUY)".

COMIC BOOK GUY: [Looking in my general direction]: "Sir, please step up to the counter."

ME: "Oh, it's OK, I told this woman that she could go ahead of me and-(abruptly cut off by COMIC BOOK GUY)".

COMIC BOOK GUY: "You were next in line."

ME: "Right, but...she has a lot of books and...um..."

COMIC BOOK GUY: "YOU were next in line."

WOMEN WHO I GAVE MY PLACE IN LINE TO: "..."

ME: "..."

COMIC BOOK GUY: "SIR! Please step up and(abruptly cut off by ME)".

ME: "So what, take care of her first, really, I don't mind."

COMIC BOOK GUY: [sweating profusely] "That's NOT how I run things around here!!!"

WOMEN WHO I GAVE MY PLACE IN LINE TO: "..."

ME: "You're kidding right?"

COMIC BOOK GUY: "..."

ME: "Well OK then! I guess you run a pretty tight ship around here. You must be proud of yourself. [INNER THOUGHT: "You fucking failure of a fucking human being"]".

This guy was something else. I wouldn't even say he was a tool. No. He's the fucking metal box on wheels that mechanics use to store their tools. DICK. 

Had I not had to piss so badly I would have thrown that "dick" boomerang right back in his face and asked to speak with his manager. Next time, I'll piss first, instigate a fight and then call him on his bullshit. 

PRIDE (FOR JACK)

Per Jack's request, I will now willingly commit the sin of pride...automotive pride that is. I am full of random ability, but I am particularly PROUD of my driving abilities. Recently I had to re-up on my car insurance and I was pleasantly reminded that I have ZERO points on my license [knock on wood] which is something of an achievement for someone who once piloted a purple Lincoln Continental while high on LSD.

I'm thinking part of the reason for my driving prowess was the result of the first pair of autos I had access to. Below is a 1996 Pontiac Trans Am. This was my mother's car and it had a 275-HP V-8 and T-Tops. She gave me driving lessons in a pet cemetery. Seriously. Giving a car like this to a 16 year old guy is akin to handing out a .357 Magnum lacking a lock. Oh how I pine for the days when I used to SMOKE assholes in Ford Mustangs. Fuck 'em.

My other teenage whip was my father's 1997 Mercedes-Benz 300E. This, my friends, is a fucking CAR! It wasn't that fast, nor luxurious, but I'll be damned if it wasn't bullet proof. Few people outside of the American Midwest can fathom how dicey driving in the winter can be, and yet this car just oozed confidence. I really liked the head lamp washers too (which I just noticed this image lacks)!

My greatest driving feat was safely transporting my person from Chicago to LA. That's 2,000 miles kids, and at a certain point I got sick of being in the car with MYSELF. Thank God I was alone, otherwise I would have left even my best friend for dead somewhere near the continental divide. 

When people ask me what I want to do when I "grow up" I respond without hesitation and shout "RACE CAR DRIVER". I'm not kidding. If I had few grand to blow I wouldn't donate it to charity (feel free to interject here Gloria :)) I would piss it away at Skip Barber Racing School. Really, this possibility is what gets me out of bed in the morning (fuck it - I'm already going to hell). All I need is an understanding benefactor to make this happen. 

This great dream of mine might be drawing close sooner than I think. My lithe metallic boyfriend (my Acura RSX Type-S) is set to be returned in less than 5 months and it scares the shit out of me. After I get over the initial shock I think I'll acquire a Volvo 850 R. I've always been horny for that bitch (just not in yellow - paint it black YO). 

UM, yeah, so, I don't know if I fulfilled Jack's requirements. This basically just turned into my jerking off about cars... 

DRUNK BOUNCE

My bouncer cherry? Popped as of last night. I owe this distinct "pleasure" to a rotund, mid-20s female who couldn't hold her liquor for shit. I could tell this woman was trouble from the get go. Tittering on 5 inch heels, she bitched about the $10 cover, struggled to locate her ID, and was generally, well, a fucking bitch. But her friend promised to keep an eye on her, and for the sake of all involved, I elected to let her in.

Bad idea.

About an hour later, I heard a ruckus near the bar. Immediately, I stopped talking up the cute boy I wanted to ask out (more on this in a moment) and saw with my little eye my manager throttling this woman, drink glass smashed to the ground, stiletto heels everywhere. In a word, a drunk mess. He dragged her outside to the curb where she proved stronger than one would have imagined, and I had to literally remove her hands from the throat of said manager. 

Cops where called, but she and her "handler" had wisely gotten this fuck out of dodge before they arrived. For the rest of the night I got high fives from the existing patrons, who told me what a annoying bitch that woman was being. Still, I feel like I failed in that I let her in in the first place, although my initial decision not to was overruled by my manager, so, whatever. 

What REALLY pissed me off though was that I was chatting up this SUPER-ADORABLE nice guy and actually had the balls to ask him for his number, but before I could drunk-zilla had to interfere with my courtship. Drunk bitch fucked up my game son! 

WANTED: DETAIL ORIENTED SELF-STARTERS!

Not more than 12 hours after posting my resume on CareerBuilder, my e-mail box has already been deluged with a plethora of automatically generated job offers that I would would NEVER consider. Here's an example:

Dear Justin,

After "reviewing" [note: my air quotes] your resume on CareerBuilder, and "considering" [note: ditto] your background and qualifications, I invite you to explore a rewarding opportunity as an American Consultants Financial Professional in our Elmhurst Office [note: has anyone else ever been to Elmhurst? Eeewwww!]

American Consultants, LLC, is currently hiring highly motivated and qualified persons like yourself to join our team of financial professionals. I believe with your qualifications you would succeed in our challenging and fast-paced environment.

[blah, blah, blah]

I look forward to exploring this rewarding opportunity with you. Sincerely, John Doe Executive Vice President American Consultants Chicago

While I'd like to think that an Executive VP of a Fortune 500 personally took time out of his day to respond a resume with zero background in the financial industry, I'd personally like to take this opportunity to invite CareerBuilder to TITILLATE ITSELF WITH A RUSTY COAT HANGER.

The only reason I posted my resume on that shit site (and it isn't even the real one I use to apply for real jobs) is so that I can prove to the state that I'm actively looking for a job instead of masturbating and drinking vodka at 2PM on a Monday (which I may or may not be doing in between writing cover letters).

I'll work my contacts and apply to jobs that I actually have an interest in....fuck you very much.

Worse come to worse I'd rather valet cars, or better yet, sling sando's at Subway than work for a Fortune 500 company in a "fast paced environment". Are there any jobs in the United States that aren't "fast paced"? With the exception of working at the DMV, I can't think of one.

If you're not suited to working in a fast paced environment in this economy, you might as well choke on a bottle of Valium and say good night.

Or go into politics.

UGH - SUCH A NASTY BITCH

After successfully avoiding my workplace arch nemesis for this entire week, Susan (the e-mail broadcast QB [Queen Bitch – she actually refers to herself as this, no joke]) enters my cubicle clutching a job jacket.

With all 5’1" of her not so much looming over me, she asks why the estimate I completed exceeds the pre-payment we received for a new client. I knew exactly why and went about supplying the evidence/paperwork.

It probably only took me 15 seconds, but the entire time, which seemed like a minor eternity, I could hear her nostrils flaring. Damn woman, take a fucking Quaalude or something!

Seemingly satisfied with my answer, and unable to find any additional fault with me, she says “well….next time print out ALL the paperwork so I know what the HELL is going on!” then turns and her short, plump frame leaves my field of vision.

What a fucking bitch! Whatever - I can't wait to see Tony tommorrow!