The Scout Chronicles: Summer is Ruining Barbecues Season!

What up Asshats?  The ol’ Scoutmeister is changing his tune on Summer in Chicago.  Years past (and I can only recall 2 thus far, though my ability to comprehend passage of time is limited to nonexistent) I would get all aggravated and frustrated with the heat.  In case you can’t tell, and if you can’t tell you’re an asshole, the Scouter has a thick mane.  Upside is that bitches swoon over this shit.  You should have been on my St. Patrick’s Day walk.  I could fucking see the tears and wistful look on dad’s face as ho after drunken, slutty HO made a huge fuss over me and my Hollywood hair.  Hey dad, smart move waiting to get Scout after you were already married.  But coming from the same guy that still tries to take my bone out of my mouth even though I’ve bitten him like infinity times for it, I’m not surprised.  I told these chicks, “Listen bitches, those commercial dogs get made over for hours.  But I look like this straight out of fucking bed every day.”  That is totally what I said to them, even though it looked like I was just licking their faces and trying to “shake” despite them never asking me to shake.  But Scout digresses.  Right around Summer Solstice time (and fuck you, I know what the Summer Solstice is.  For whatever reason I’m compelled each and every Summer Solstice to take a 1/2 dump in the same spot, walk three full circles and one semi-circle, then take the other 1/2 dump and salute the sun while emitting a low growl.  Don’t ask me why, it just happens) mom and dad go planning this whole barbecue hullabaloo over at SHQ (Scout Headquarters).  Grandma was invited, which pumps the Scoutmeister right the fuck up.  Grandma has this awesome habit of bringing stuff to Scout in this animal hide carrying device she hangs from her shoulder.  For whatever reason, lately she’s taken to only bringing something very occasionally.  I’m unsure how many more visits I’m going to accept that bullshit before she finds her animal hide carrying device covered in Scout’s piss.  The other guest of honor was dad’s high school buddy Jeff.  Jeff never brings me fuck all when he comes over, but I still think he’s pretty cool.  First off he’s big, and I like big people.  Never really psycho-analyzed why I like them, I just do.  And Jeff goes out on our balcony every 45 minutes or so to enjoy these white, cylindrical human treats that you have to set fire to one end before you begin eating them.  He lets me come out on the balcony while he does this because I’m fucking fascinated by these things.  Dad sets a plate of these massive raw meat discs he overpaid for at Whole Foods out on the counter and then we both go out on the balcony and light the grill (I’m totally awesome at lighting the grill, makes my whole day).  We come back inside, pound a brew, have a few laughs, typical barbecue shit from what I understand of them.  Now this is when mom and dad make a CRITICAL mistake.  Grandma and Jeff were talking and mom was in the bedroom with that miniature humanoid that apparently lives here full time now, yet brings absofuckinglutely nothing to the table, once again wasting all sorts of time bundling up its dump and cleaning it off since it apparently hasn’t figured out how to scoot its ass across the lawn yet.  Dad then goes outside to check the temperature of the grill.  Custom is the Scouter does this task with dad.  However I knew that now was my time to strike.  I make straight for the counter, jump up on that fucker, and put the chomp to raw meat disc number 1.  We’re talking no chewing, no victory barking, no sniffing around the bush.  Just raw meat getting crushed.  I took one look over the counter and see dad walking back in from the porch, yet he doesn’t see the Scoutmesiter.  My window is closing but not yet shut.  I make a move for raw meat disc number 2.  I want to do this as discreetly as possible so I pick it up and fling it on the kitchen floor.  I’m trying to savor this one a bit, even had thoughts of washing it down with the Cabernet Sauvignon dad had poured into the decanter.  But I heard dad’s loud-assed brutish footsteps (I prefer to prance noiselessly.  It is a total showoff move, but such is the poodle side of my lineage) approaching, so casting decorum aside I begin bolting this meat.  Dad rounds the corner just as I force the last gulp down.  He instantly goes into hilarious and pathetic antics, yelling “Scout NO!” even though the meat is already in my stomach.  He takes the plate containing the other two uneaten meat discs into the bedroom to show mom and the humanoid “….What that asshole Scout did!”.  You’re goddamn right Scout did it mutherfuckers!  And I’ll do it again if you are stupid enough to leave me in that situation.  Look at it!  Scout did it!  Then dad’s all like “Scout, get in your kennel!”  Fucking laughable mein!  Yeah dad, that is the last place I want to go: somewhere quiet where I can lay down and digest the entire fucking pound of raw meat I just ate.  Please oh please massa, not the kennel!  At this point Jeff and Dad have to race out of the condo to get more raw meat discs, shooting ol’ Scouter menacing glares the whole time.  Only guess what these fucking geniuses do?  The entire time they are at Danger Dominick’s buying Section 8 replacement meat, they leave the grill burning.  So they come back, throw the meat on, and when it is 1/4 cooked, the propane runs out.  I can’t even make this shit up dude.  Now everyone is in a total panic, blaming me for the whole shootin’ match.  And honestly, I don’t give one half of one fuck at this point.  I’m in a world of hurt trying to digest this pould of beef.  Fucking food coma like no one’s business.  I wanted nothing more than to yarmouth violently.  But I held it in like a man…couldn’t give them the satisfaction of saying “I told you so!” as the Scoutster whistled beef all over the condo.  All in all I fucked this barbecue 6 ways to Sunday.  And even though I didn’t shit right for a week, Scoutmeister isn’t so bearish summertime anymore.  Give me a call anytime you’re planning to grill, I’ll happily come over and fuck up your cookout.

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.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to The Scout Chronicles: Summer is Ruining Barbecues Season!

  1. Anonymous says:

    Red Meat! Nice one!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

four + 1 =

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>