Thank God Friday is here. Like seriously, one more outlook notification or request from a coworker to buy magazines from their Elementary school child spontaneous combustion will cease to be an urban legend. Today I gained inspiration from Charlie Sheen, who is a lot like me except 20 years older, cooler, richer and more famous. So I'm absolutely nothing like Charlie Sheen, but I bet if I wanted to pull a General Shermanesque March to the Sea tonight and march from Wicker Park eastward burning every neighborhood Chicago bar to the ground until we ended up at North Avenue beach he would have a two word response when invited. Fuck. and yes.
Sidenote, that would be an extremely patriotic barcrawl idea.
Side Sidenote, I'm still confused as to whether being a yank is a good thing or a bad thing...roll tide.
Side Side Sidenote, why isn't every bar in Chicago open until 5 on both Friday and Saturday nights. Were city officials high on glue when they decided that Saturday deserved a bonus hour? Also when you are as popular as me pregames tend to go a little long so I will never make it to many of Chicago's coolest bars because I am still in a Lincoln Park condo ripping Jim Beam shots at 1am when most of the "going out" crowd is about to head in. Obviously the river north Alderman (wtf is an alderman) didn't go to IU.
Speaking of Charlie Sheen...I wonder what different generations think of young Chaz. I'm assuming people my age think he is somewhat of a hero because he does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, hooks up with hot chicks and has made a handful of good movies. I bet I would even like that show if it wasn't for that fucking kid. Yes I'm jealous of that kid. He makes $300,000 an episode. Not even the douchiest I-bankers I know will make that in the next 2 years. On the thought of jealousy I bet that's why the rest of America hates Charlie Sheen. They are jealous that he was born into a famous family, has unlimited money and treats his body like shit. In reality these people are projecting their insecurities onto Charlie. It's not his fault you grew up poor and your dad died of alcoholism, his liver must have been a pussy. What type of life would you have him live? 10% to the church? He already gives 10% to an agent, who probably possesses his soul. Any guy that gets arrested for beating his wife and then gets sentenced to teaching acting classes in Aspen, deserves a fist pound from everyone in the room. I'm not saying that beating women is cool, but a nice fuck you to the American legal system every once in a while is applause worthy.
But whatever, as I sit in the dreaded traffic on I94 tonight, assigning a personal story to every person in every car that passes me by (I'm still a little distraught about blue Ford Taurus woman this morning who lost her pet gerbil in a tragic vaccum cleaner incident last night) I will think of situations in which I will conjur the phrase "What would Charlie Do?" I might make t-shirts, I might make wristbands. But first, I will pull over in a ghetto ass cigar shop run by a half Jew half Indian in Skokie (seriously you aren't allowed to live there if you aren't 1 of the 2) and grab a Can of Joose for the remainder of the drive home, because if I get caught it will provide me a vacation from my job and lots of National attention. Oh, whats that? I'll just be jailed, lose my job and have to fellatiate a plastic tube to start my car for the next 8 years? Eh, worth it.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Professional non-productivity
If ever my boss were to print out my web history and set it down on my desk, I would know it was time for Moeller's last stand. Because I am going fucking down! Aside from blogging at work, I routinely watch movie trailers, episodes on hulu, I read the grimiest of blogs, some of which take sport in posting nude or objectionable imagery of women. It's almost like I want to subconsciously get fired. I have started openly discussing sexual positions on gchat, i don't even hide my twitter or facebook pages. Once in a while I will throw in a foxnews.com visit but its only because their entertainment section has outstanding then and now photo galleries (seriously check it out.) Sprinkle in about 40 movie reviews I'll read on Rotten Tomatoes and the time it takes me to reload my Grooveshark playlists with more showtunes, glee and mid 90's hip hop (had to throw that in there so i'm only 2/3 gay) I barely have enough time to respond to house emails and call my friends at work. I openly hit on the 3 attractive people in my work place over office communicator, and I spend a good ammount of time photoshopping cats into famous photos and sending them to coworkers to seek encouragement.
So what will my last stand be you ask? I'll probably bust out a bottle of Wild Turkey and run around hurling insults at upper management and insult those more successful than me on issues out of their control like how unattractive their wives are or how their children look like retarted splice creations. One should always have a plan.
So what will my last stand be you ask? I'll probably bust out a bottle of Wild Turkey and run around hurling insults at upper management and insult those more successful than me on issues out of their control like how unattractive their wives are or how their children look like retarted splice creations. One should always have a plan.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Happy twentysomething
January is the absolute worst. New Years is always a big fucking disappointment in which you spend $200 to drink watered down cocktails in a dark warehouse surrounded by the greasy guidos that you might expect to find in the basement of a Florence nightclub circa 3am on a Tuesday, only to be inevititably cockblocked by some cab driver named Raji, that was too busy barking Swahili at some terrorist 4000 miles away (on some drunk kids cellphone that was left in the back) to notice you and some heinous slampiece trying to hail him down.
"FUCK it! We're taking the god dam el!" you say. To which Goro replies that her feet hurt, and she needs to find her friends. Fine fuck her, you walk to the redline and inevitably get on a train heading the wrong way only to end up at 95th street in a booze covered suit and realize you're out of cash for a bus back up north.
Furthermore in January you will endure endless tweets and facebook posts about your little siblings going back to college, your NFL team gets knocked out of contention, it's cold, your morning commute is tripled by a quarter inch of precipitation and no one wants to go out because all of your friends are a bunch of prissy little bitches.
That and I get one year closer to the real world, one year closer to marriage and one year closer to spending my hard earned money on things like diapers instead of black market adderall. One year closer to having to pursue an actual career and life instead of plugging away at some shitty sales job that pays you enough to cover rent, fast food and occasionally a hundred bucks at a bottle on a Saturday night out in river north.
I think I may start lying about my age like a woman, but not because I think looking young is important, it's because with age comes an inferred responsibility code. I'll be honest when I see engagements on facebook I fucking vomit, and when I see pictures of people I went to high school with that have kids or even worse a profile picture changed to a pregnant belly I sometimes have to self mutilate to get rid of my anxiety. Then I quickly run to the fridge and down one of the many four lokos I stocked up on and throw on an IU tee and everything is better again.
I'm not sure if living in a big city makes life move faster and clearly I live in a world of overexaggeration for comedic effect, but when people at work joke with me that I should move to the suburbs to lighten my commute to work I look for the nearest object to propel at them. Moving to the suburbs is giving up. Why would I throw up the white flag at 24? Talk to someone at work that is 30 and has 2 kids an a wife...I bet they wish they hadn't given up. They could be living with 3 of their old college buds doing crazy shit like going out on Wednesdays. Instead they screen calls to their cell phone from creditors and raid the office closets for free toilet paper.
The white picket fence may have been the American dream in the 50's but the American dream for generation y is senseless hedonism and a strong "I don't give a fuck mentality." When you have the rest of your life to be bored and subscribe to society's plan going to the casino at 4am on a Thursday suddenly doesn't seem like such a bad idea. Because if you don't create these reckless experiences now you are bound to regret your boring existence later as you slowly wait to die. So live my friends, not for anyone else but for yourself.
"FUCK it! We're taking the god dam el!" you say. To which Goro replies that her feet hurt, and she needs to find her friends. Fine fuck her, you walk to the redline and inevitably get on a train heading the wrong way only to end up at 95th street in a booze covered suit and realize you're out of cash for a bus back up north.
Furthermore in January you will endure endless tweets and facebook posts about your little siblings going back to college, your NFL team gets knocked out of contention, it's cold, your morning commute is tripled by a quarter inch of precipitation and no one wants to go out because all of your friends are a bunch of prissy little bitches.
That and I get one year closer to the real world, one year closer to marriage and one year closer to spending my hard earned money on things like diapers instead of black market adderall. One year closer to having to pursue an actual career and life instead of plugging away at some shitty sales job that pays you enough to cover rent, fast food and occasionally a hundred bucks at a bottle on a Saturday night out in river north.
I think I may start lying about my age like a woman, but not because I think looking young is important, it's because with age comes an inferred responsibility code. I'll be honest when I see engagements on facebook I fucking vomit, and when I see pictures of people I went to high school with that have kids or even worse a profile picture changed to a pregnant belly I sometimes have to self mutilate to get rid of my anxiety. Then I quickly run to the fridge and down one of the many four lokos I stocked up on and throw on an IU tee and everything is better again.
I'm not sure if living in a big city makes life move faster and clearly I live in a world of overexaggeration for comedic effect, but when people at work joke with me that I should move to the suburbs to lighten my commute to work I look for the nearest object to propel at them. Moving to the suburbs is giving up. Why would I throw up the white flag at 24? Talk to someone at work that is 30 and has 2 kids an a wife...I bet they wish they hadn't given up. They could be living with 3 of their old college buds doing crazy shit like going out on Wednesdays. Instead they screen calls to their cell phone from creditors and raid the office closets for free toilet paper.
The white picket fence may have been the American dream in the 50's but the American dream for generation y is senseless hedonism and a strong "I don't give a fuck mentality." When you have the rest of your life to be bored and subscribe to society's plan going to the casino at 4am on a Thursday suddenly doesn't seem like such a bad idea. Because if you don't create these reckless experiences now you are bound to regret your boring existence later as you slowly wait to die. So live my friends, not for anyone else but for yourself.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
BROverload
I just learned how to get around the firewall that was preventing me from blogging at work. It's the same loophole I use for gchat. I totally feel like Mark Zuckerberg when he got around all that shit in the Social Network to create Facemash...except I'm not a total douche or a billionaire...well maybe a douche. Expect daily blogs moving forward.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
My 1000th twitter post
I know I'm such a faggot for talking about twitter all the time. I never fucked with it in college because I was too busy being awesome, but now that I spend roughly 6 months a year wasting away in an office or on my way to it, it's the one thing that keeps me sane. That along with 4square, which is basicaly a game that me and my postgrad friends play to see who can drink the most during the week. Whatever social media is what it is. If you think its really gay you probably have better things to do so I solute you...that or you are a raging douche and you are afraid you will have an embarassingly low ammount of followers.
So the other day I was coming upon my 1000th tweet. I realized that this was a pathetic achievement but I should commemorate it in someway. I scoured the web for ideas. Some people wrote a self-depricating poem about how much time they have wasted, others made a statement of vanity, while some just simply wrote "1000."
I went another route, I though of how much I had said in those 140 character messages and what it could have been had I connected some non linear thoughts. It's only going to be a matter of time before some low concept book comes out...1000 tweets, a novel told 140 characters at a time. Sure shit my dad says is getting a tv show. But what if a famous author released his next novel exclusively through twitter. 140 characters at a time...one tweet a day. I promise you this is gong to happen.
But anyway, who gives a fuck, I wrote 35000 words and all I got out of it was a few laughs from others and made a few of my friends from Indianapolis realize how pathetic their broad ripple social scene is. But I guess the point of this post is...I'm not sorry, I'll keep tweeting just like you post on Lost message boards...and maybe with my next 1000 tweets I'll do somthing more important than announce to 183 people what bar I'm visiting and how drunk I am.
So the other day I was coming upon my 1000th tweet. I realized that this was a pathetic achievement but I should commemorate it in someway. I scoured the web for ideas. Some people wrote a self-depricating poem about how much time they have wasted, others made a statement of vanity, while some just simply wrote "1000."
I went another route, I though of how much I had said in those 140 character messages and what it could have been had I connected some non linear thoughts. It's only going to be a matter of time before some low concept book comes out...1000 tweets, a novel told 140 characters at a time. Sure shit my dad says is getting a tv show. But what if a famous author released his next novel exclusively through twitter. 140 characters at a time...one tweet a day. I promise you this is gong to happen.
But anyway, who gives a fuck, I wrote 35000 words and all I got out of it was a few laughs from others and made a few of my friends from Indianapolis realize how pathetic their broad ripple social scene is. But I guess the point of this post is...I'm not sorry, I'll keep tweeting just like you post on Lost message boards...and maybe with my next 1000 tweets I'll do somthing more important than announce to 183 people what bar I'm visiting and how drunk I am.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Blacklisted
My blogging at work privileges have been stripped of me thanks to the faggoty new firewall at my work. So while other in my position would probably stop constantly surfing the web and reading NSFW blogs all day about the stupid bullshit that I actually care about (mainly movies and cats) and do some real work...uh fuck that.
I go to work for 3 reasons: Stare at my co-worker Jenna's tits, use the qtips in the bathroom (after googling porn on my blackberry during a 30 minute shit) and obtain an income as a front for my crystal meth dealing ring. How do you think that I afford this lavish lifestyle? Base plus commish? I sell smack to 12 year olds at Vernon Hills Middle School...that and my parents pay off my credit card. Go fuck yourself, you're just jealous, just like I'm jealous of people with cool jobs, private jets and female roommates that felatiate them daily. Basically I hate anyone that has a decided advantage over me and I kinda wish it was like comic books where I could defeat them and then obtain their power or their wealth and their stuff and their women...so ya. i.e. Taking out Travolta would give me Kelly Preston, a private plane and all of L Ron Hubbard's secrets...
So why am I laying on the couch at 730 writing a dumb blog about my unfulfilled fantasies while pressing the ignore button on my cellphone on a private number (read: creditor) I should be doing something relevant or at least trying to figure out a way to intoxicate myself so I forget how average my life really is...oh, hm...doorbell, cops, census people? Oh it's my crystal meth, gotta go!
I go to work for 3 reasons: Stare at my co-worker Jenna's tits, use the qtips in the bathroom (after googling porn on my blackberry during a 30 minute shit) and obtain an income as a front for my crystal meth dealing ring. How do you think that I afford this lavish lifestyle? Base plus commish? I sell smack to 12 year olds at Vernon Hills Middle School...that and my parents pay off my credit card. Go fuck yourself, you're just jealous, just like I'm jealous of people with cool jobs, private jets and female roommates that felatiate them daily. Basically I hate anyone that has a decided advantage over me and I kinda wish it was like comic books where I could defeat them and then obtain their power or their wealth and their stuff and their women...so ya. i.e. Taking out Travolta would give me Kelly Preston, a private plane and all of L Ron Hubbard's secrets...
So why am I laying on the couch at 730 writing a dumb blog about my unfulfilled fantasies while pressing the ignore button on my cellphone on a private number (read: creditor) I should be doing something relevant or at least trying to figure out a way to intoxicate myself so I forget how average my life really is...oh, hm...doorbell, cops, census people? Oh it's my crystal meth, gotta go!
Monday, May 3, 2010
Remission
I'm not really sure what remission means...I know if you have cancer remission is a good thing. However I am going to portray it in a completely different light.
A decrease of manifestations of a disease, that sounds like a particularly good thing. You had a problem and now it is at least temporarily gone. What if you problem is that you are a full blown alcoholic Thursday-Saturday. I would argue that during those 72 or so odd hours you are at the height of your disease; poisoning your body to the extent of slurred speech, loss of body functions and the systematic shutdown of many of your bodies core proccesses. However, during these intense periods of "disease" I feel like I could fight a Polar Bear in heat and/or beat Bobby Fischer in chess. I'm a fucking rockstar. Now just becaus my liquid confidence dictates that when embibed I can bring any karaoke crowd to its knees and pick-up any girl at any bar; this is not the issue at hand. When I am tanked I physically feel great, have more energy than an ADD 6 yr old and can party until 5 in the morning.
Then I wake up Sunday morning in a pile of my own urine/blood/vomit laying on a broken mirror in my closet with a tattoo that reads "I <3 black cock" on my forehead and I enter a state of remission. The toxins, or af I have loosely based my metaphor, the "disease" is slowly leaving my body and I want...to fucking...die.
No cold shower, water, greasy food, sleep, blow job, Advil, uppers, downers, crying, Hugh Grant movies, Steak N Shake Milkshakes, or even a nice back rub from my roommate can do anything about it. It is a feeling so miserable that I cannot put it into words, I can only tell you to go drink a fifth of tequilla, eat 80 mg of Addy, do this 4 nights in a row and then tell me how you feel on the fifth.
Some call it withdrawl, some call it a hangover, some don't even realize they have a broken arm until days later because of the throbbing in their temples is so severe. Light, sound become unwelcome and the only thing that brings temporary relief is running your head under cold water or the knowledge that perhaps vomitting will somehow improve your current state. It won't...
But sometimes for the true soldiers of fortune out there, there is a cure. Drag yourself to the kitchen, or your local corner pub and try to put down a 32 degree light beer, bloody mary, or mimosa...it will be one of the most difficult things you ever do. The first one will be the hardest, but then 2, 3 and four will become exponentially easier...you slowly transform from "I'm never drinking again" to "I'm kind of thinking I should go to Stanley's tonight." And as you let the disease re-enter your body and that you get your confident swashbuckling swagger back, you will be sure of one thing...remission fucking sucks.
Remission re·mis·sion noun- a temporary or permanent decrease or subsidence of manifestations of a disease.
A decrease of manifestations of a disease, that sounds like a particularly good thing. You had a problem and now it is at least temporarily gone. What if you problem is that you are a full blown alcoholic Thursday-Saturday. I would argue that during those 72 or so odd hours you are at the height of your disease; poisoning your body to the extent of slurred speech, loss of body functions and the systematic shutdown of many of your bodies core proccesses. However, during these intense periods of "disease" I feel like I could fight a Polar Bear in heat and/or beat Bobby Fischer in chess. I'm a fucking rockstar. Now just becaus my liquid confidence dictates that when embibed I can bring any karaoke crowd to its knees and pick-up any girl at any bar; this is not the issue at hand. When I am tanked I physically feel great, have more energy than an ADD 6 yr old and can party until 5 in the morning.
Then I wake up Sunday morning in a pile of my own urine/blood/vomit laying on a broken mirror in my closet with a tattoo that reads "I <3 black cock" on my forehead and I enter a state of remission. The toxins, or af I have loosely based my metaphor, the "disease" is slowly leaving my body and I want...to fucking...die.
No cold shower, water, greasy food, sleep, blow job, Advil, uppers, downers, crying, Hugh Grant movies, Steak N Shake Milkshakes, or even a nice back rub from my roommate can do anything about it. It is a feeling so miserable that I cannot put it into words, I can only tell you to go drink a fifth of tequilla, eat 80 mg of Addy, do this 4 nights in a row and then tell me how you feel on the fifth.
Some call it withdrawl, some call it a hangover, some don't even realize they have a broken arm until days later because of the throbbing in their temples is so severe. Light, sound become unwelcome and the only thing that brings temporary relief is running your head under cold water or the knowledge that perhaps vomitting will somehow improve your current state. It won't...
But sometimes for the true soldiers of fortune out there, there is a cure. Drag yourself to the kitchen, or your local corner pub and try to put down a 32 degree light beer, bloody mary, or mimosa...it will be one of the most difficult things you ever do. The first one will be the hardest, but then 2, 3 and four will become exponentially easier...you slowly transform from "I'm never drinking again" to "I'm kind of thinking I should go to Stanley's tonight." And as you let the disease re-enter your body and that you get your confident swashbuckling swagger back, you will be sure of one thing...remission fucking sucks.
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