Hey, Thanks for the Ciggy Hit Fucko!

Walking to work this morning from the bus drop off.  Feeling pretty, pretty, pretty fucking sprightly this morning if I do say so myself.  For maybe the 5th time since her glorious birth, my daughter awoke only once in the night, allowing me nearly 7.5 hours of sleep.  5-6 has been the norm.  I had a nice workout at the gym.  Even did a weight check, and my fat ass has dropped a couple of pounds of baby weight.  I know I didn’t carry the baby, but I’ve been eating for two regardless.  So I’m fairly well prancing east on Adams toward the office.  Then, much like the randy teenagers who have been fucking like rabbits with reckless abandon for several months only to see a + sign appear on an at-home pregnancy test, my perfect world came crashing down around me.  Positioned in a most lazy, partially-standing pose, was some fat, bearded, stenching vagrant.  Due to the tendinitis in my foot and my innocent nature, the fight-or-flight message being blasted out from my brain was lost in translation.  End result was my taking, full on broadside, a giant ciggy smoke exhale.  Right to the fucking Chevy Chase brah.  I coughed and stumbled to the side as if shot.  I cast a menacing glare in this crumb-bum’s direction, but he was oblivious to anything occurring in the world outside of his cigarette and the Bachman-Turner Overdrive concert from 1974 that plays continuously and loudly inside his head.  Just this dirty, shit-eating grin, staring right past me.  I was just a cunt hair away from beating the shit out of him right in front of rush hour pedestrian traffic.  And by “beating the shit out of him”, I mean “storming away furious, fantasizing that I was one of those guys who just punched people in the face”.  At some point during those fantasies I usually remember that I’m 5’6″, and a pussy.  But c’mon bro, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me???  A heater blow right in my grill at 08:15 in the a.m.  What a fucking penis.  Ruined my whole morning.  I don’t intrude on your morning routine by spraying you with Lysol and hitting you in the face with a bar of soap, so why you gotta fuck with me?  And great way to spend your pan-handling money dude.  A $10 pack of nutritious, delicious, refreshing cigarettes.  I don’t understand cigarettes.  It is well documented that I am a great hater of cancer-sticks.  I have many friends and relatives who smoke, and I’ve got nothing against them personally.  I just don’t get it.  Cigs don’t get you high or drunk, they are expensive, they taste like shit, they are hot, they make your mouth taste like cat hair, and turn your fingers yellow.  Oh, and they kill the fuck out of you.  I think that covers all of their many attributes, all positive.  Anyway, fuck that vagrant and the invisible horse he rode in on.  It made me wish my friend Gerald still lived in Chicago.  He was a famous bum pugilist.  Just because you shit in an alley didn’t protect you from his fists.     

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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5 Responses to Hey, Thanks for the Ciggy Hit Fucko!

  1. Anonymous says:

    I think a viewing of IASIP “Bums: making a mess all over the city” is in order and should restore your good spirits after this most egregious offense.
    -J “king James the green door bum ain't got shit on me” P

  2. Anonymous says:

    “And great way to spend your pan-handling money dude.”

    Reminds me of a fine gentleman I overheard talking the ear off of the unfortunate soul who was unlucky enough to be sitting next to him at the bar…he was talking about how he doesn't have to work since he's on Social Security disability due to some kind of extreme social anxiety disorder, and then immediately launched into a detailed description of an intricate dragon tattoo he was about to get. Great use of government assistance.

  3. Anonymous says:

    By the way, that is a spectacular picture.

  4. Anonymous says:

    You lost me at “dropped a couple of pounds”. WTF.

  5. Zach Giles says:

    The couple of lost pounds was a scale anamoly that no longer exists in the real world. It was only temporary.

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