Chicago Weather Forecast:

Today’s Forecast: It is going to be fucking hot today, with a chance of swamp ass.  Wednesday: Hotter than a freshly-raped fox in a forest fire*.  Sport-wipe necessary when you finally get to your office, as swamp-ass is guaranteed.  Thursday: Hotter than a nun’s cunt in the African Marathon.  Pack an additional outfit to change into at the office because Thursday’s swamp ass laughs maniacally at your sport wipe.  Friday: Who fucking gives a shit anyway?  Chicago’s weather is the biggest bullshit in China.  All extremes, all the time.  Never pleasant and comfortable more than a day at a time.  And what really gives me a red ass is the fact that due to these extremes, the weather dick always gets to say “We’ve had an average _____________ “.  Yeah, because 4 99′s and 26 57′s statistically average out to a “Normal” June.  Fuck you Skilling.  As soon as someone calls me on the phone out of the blue and offers me a high paying job in San Diego-despite the fact I’ve never even looked for a job there-I’ll move so fast your mom’s head will spin.  What I do have is some random floater Coors Lights in the fridge at home.  If I just merely open one, will that frosty cool train barrel through my condo?  Or do I have to actually acquire some paint and draw a tunnel or other access point for the train first?  I’m unsure of proper protocol. 

*My first ever “real job” after college was at an old-timey publishing company in Boston.  This phrase landed me right in the HR office for some reeducation.  I was a total fish out of water in that job.  Freshly out of state school in Ohio where anything goes, I land in a very prim and proper publishing firm with a ton of private/boarding/girl’s school types.  Not a great mix.  Don’t get me wrong, many of these people were quite to very cool, and I am friends with several to this day.  However, there were many who wouldn’t know a good time or a joke if either walked up and took a shit right on their face.  So I’m in this tiny little office “collating” (which means you are NOT a very important person at the company, given this job is now done by copying machines) a shitload of documents with others in my position level, and a slew of temps.  No circulation in there, and we are shagging ass trying to get ready for the national sales meeting.  Without thinking twice, I drop “It’s hotter than a freshly raped fox in a forest fire in here”.  Record screeches to a halt.  Crickets chirping.  Tumbleweed blew by.  A look from this one private school chick like I’d just been arrested for kiddie porn or something (and I know it was her that dropped the dime on me, I’ll swear that to my grave).  Boom, day later and I’m in the HR office being grilled like I just quit my job, sold my house, grew a long beard, started wearing a long robe and moved to Dearborn, Michigan.  My boy Ron (who was a cool guy, just doing his job) starts up with the “So Zachary, tell me in what context you think rape is funny?” and “Do you condone rape?”.  I mean shit, I’ve heard that phrase a half dozen times while working on a roofing job during the summer in central Ohio.  Nobody said bully to anyone uttering that phrase on the roof, so why is it any different at a stodgy publishing firm in the heart of the pretentious Northeast?  Bullshit in my opinion.  No Ron, I don’t condone raping people.  However, I do think the idea of a somehow raped fox (by whom or why? that is part of the awesomeness) racing wildly about in the midst of a forest fire is pretty goddamned funny.  Well, I learned that day what is funny on a roof in the Midwest is not necessarily funny at Simmons or Smith College in Boston, MA.  And now I know, and knowing is half the battle. 

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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