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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Poison Ivy

I hate the Cubs, mainly because they are the archnemesis of my beloved St. Louis Cardinals. I despise their players, their stupid hats, obese coach and whining media. They always suck, yet year after year their is a buzz around this city that THIS IS THE YEAR. No it is not. This is the year that you once again get anally assaulted by the Cards and the rest of the National League...but I must say, I love Wrigley field.

Wrigley field is a dilapadated hell hole plopped in the middle of an affluent neighborhood surrounded by bars that encourage debauchery. On any given Saturday you can find an all you can drink bar crawl somewhere amid Addison and Clark with a theme that encourages alcohol poisoning and partial nudity. Your typical Cubs fan is a spoiled North Shore brat who will trade in their daddy's box seats so they can sit in the bleachers and catch a drunken coma by the bottom of the 6th. It's the polar opposite of your Jersey Shore-esque Sox fan who will brag to his friends how many overtime shifts his dad picked up the past weekend.

The rooftops, similar to the bars that surround Wrigleyville offer packages to groups of 20somethings that can booze and eat on a highrise townhouse while wearing their $200 Mark Prior jersey without the knowledge that he now teaches high school gym in Aurora. The day game schedule is also conducive for the unemployed Wilmette fan who can hop the purple to the red, go to the game and then empty their trust at Manor later that evening.

I may be apathetic about baseball and the Cubs but I have a feeling I will be calling in sick a lot this Spring...and to all those hooligans and smoking hot NT chicks that will be joining me in the $15 SRO's...cheers.

There's nothing little about it...

What is Little 5? That's what everyone always asks. It's just a stupid bike race is what most outsiders think. Some people will throw the Lance Armstrong quote about it being the coolest moment of his life, others will bring up the Academy Award winning movie made about it, and most frat guys will tell you it's a week in which "you get super fucked up!" But instead of me arguing that it's the greatest college week in the known universe or that it is what makes Indiana the greatest party school in the nation, I will instead try to encapsulate the true spirit of Little 5 with some commentary. And this will all be from the perspective of a Greek, so if you are a gdi, stop reading now and ban your IP address from further visits to this site.

The selection process: I would equate this process as similar to finding your prom date. It's very stressful, and it can make or break your high school legacy. If you end up with a B-team date outside the "in-crowd" you will forever be looked upon in memories as a loser, or even worse that you didn't even exist. Chapter rooms are abuzz with excitement as group BBM-chats explore every possible scenario in which the chips could fall. This decision not only determines the name of the sorority on the shirts you will be wearing or the girls that you are banging, but it ices your reputation on campus. (Because remember when you are in a frat you sacrifice all individuality and become 3 greek letters.) Then your social stands up in the middle of your president scolding a group of neophytes about the drano bomb they inserted in the house mom's office. "WE got (insert facey sorority here who has lots of hot chicks and a few unattractive slutty ones but even if you hook up with the later you can tell your boys at the bar that you slayed a ____ )" High fives ensue, and a drinking little 5 planning committee meeting immediately commences.

Planning the week: Little 5 goes Monday-Saturday. There is a function every night. Breaking the ice Monday is important, have to start things off right. A common theme could be speed dating or some sort of meet and greet function, lights should be on so everyone can select their mate for the week or at least plant a few seeds for the more fun days. Tuesday can be a week night, you should only expect about a 50% showing from the younger girls, all upperclassmen will be at the bars. Wednesday and Thursday need to be absolute blowout events. Band, concert, dj, fog, lights, sweat, shots, mix all those together and add a shitty college theme and you have yourself a legit little 5 frat party. But this is still a crescendo taking us to...

Boats: What is better than throwing 40 people on a double decker pontoon boat and setting asail with 3 kegs and 20 handles? You're right, docking that baby up to an 80 foot yacht (where do these Lake Monroe residents get their money?) and sucking on a 45 year old MILF's surgically enhanced titties. Boat parties have and always will be a strong staple of the little 5 tradition. Pissing in water, wearing lifejackets like diapers and floating around for 4 hours with a personal handle is pretty much the climax of all of my sexual fantasies...err just fantasies.

Then it's time for the main event...race day: 5 am, in a courtyard, outdoors, drinking...300 people in obnoxious jerseys/shirts/nude doing all sorts of tomfoolery that comes with the territory of drinking. Launching potato missiles across the street, 4 story beer bongs of Old Crow bourbon, sunny with a chance of beer-showers. This ensues for about 8 hours, until the race begins. The Greeks flood to the stadium marching 20 wide on a mission of victory. Several people are unconscious or bleeding, but everyone needs to go cheer for their respective team and threaten the lives of all the Cutters fans and call their girlfriends ugly. 200 laps later, the track is covered in literally the blood, sweat and tears of the eventual champion and everyone is ready to retire to the Jewish frat for a terrible rap concert that was co-financed by a banker named Silverberg and his son's drug money.

So that's it in a nut shell: 5 parties, a day at the lake, some bars and a bike race. But it's so much more. It's a celebration of spring, of all things alcohol and taking hedonism to the furthest stretch of the imagination. Hopefully you shacked at least one night in the dorms with a Freshman, avoided the tank, and won a fight with an ATO...it's little 5 man, go get it!

Editor's note

I've been told time and time again, that I don't focus enough on Chicago in this blog. Also people are mad that I never use names, from now on I will try to mention more landmarks and such that make you feel like you are along for the ride in my twisted delerium that is a "real world existence" i.e. instead of waking up in a dumpster, I will be waking up in the dumpster of Taco Burrito palace #2 off Halsted with a Goodbar bracelet on my left hand. I agree my rants should be more descriptive. However, this blog will remain anonymous because I don't know how to screen its visitors and if I lose my job bc of this and have to go on unemployment it will go against everything I stand for politically and shame my mock upperclass roots.