The Scout Chronicles: They’re Gonna Kill Scout, Aren’t They?

Been a long time amigos, how’s shit? As always, the Ol’ Scouter abides. I wish I could tell you “same shit, different day”, but unfortunately same shit no longer applies at Scoutmeister headquarters. Shit’s gettin’ weird, and at an accelerating rate. My mom and dad are still idiots and my little sister still shits her pants, nothing new to report there. Though I can’t quite place my paw on it, I just feel like something is amiss. You know how you just feel that you shouldn’t let your next fart because it might result in skid-marks? Kind of like that. I don’t wear Fruit of the Looms of course, but you dig what the Ol’ Scouter’s throwin’ your way.

To begin there is a distinct absence of “stuff” around our place. Stuff which used to be near permanent fixture on the landscape at Scoutmeister HQ is mysteriously vanished. First and foremost: the fucking ottoman. The Ol’ Scouter can tolerate a lot of disappeared shit, but the ottoman is certainly not one of these. This critical piece of furniture, or lack thereof, has set Scout to pacin’ and chewin’ on numerous occasions since its abduction by persons unknown. I called the assclowns over at Amber Alert, but apparently that system is for baby humans only, not for furniture pieces. High bullshit in my opinion but whatevs. At one point I saw dad moving it around very suspiciously, but no way could he have actually spirited it off, right? I mean, dad supposedly loves Scout so why would he remove his favorite belly cooler? My parents already bent The Scoutmeister over unceremoniously and without Vaseline when they Inceptioned my day bed. The ottoman always has that other-side-of-the-pillow coolness that sets the Ol’ Scouter’s belly at ease when he’s worried, or eaten too much of his little sister’s high-chair offal. Without it I’m but a furry little sailor lost at sea :(

Secondly, and much more worrisome, a “Jim” character has arrived on the scene for no good goddamned reason. Jim’s always all “Hey Scout buddy, how ya doin’?”. The Scoutmeister is not buying whatever the fuck it is you’re selling Jim, so don’t expect a genital exposure anytime soon muchacho. Jim is constantly showing up at our condo with random jackoffs leading some sort of sight-seeing tour of the place. “As you can see the unit offers stunning, uninterrupted views of the entire Chicago skyline…..” and other such bullshit. Unit, hmmmph, Scout is licking his unit right now, turkey. They have eyes Jimbo, they can see the tall buildings. Worst. Tour. Guide. Ever. At no point does Jim mention the kickass, totally chill, devilishly handsome, alpha male golden doodle chilling in his pimp’s nest kennel over in the corner. The Scoutmeister trumps the Sears Tower (yeah I know that it is technically called the “Willis Tower” now, but no one gives a flying fuck) any day of the week and twice on Sunday. So I ask, what are these lame-assed, Jim-led tours all about anyway? They started one day out of the clear blue sky and they are fucking relentless. Scout has to sprint outside for rushed dumps in between these tours like some sort of goddamned circus animal. The Ol’ Scouter doesn’t respond well to “Scout, do it!”. I like to get a lay of the land, sniff around a bit, pick my spot, maybe pull up at the last moment and find a better spot if I don’t like the mojo. I cannot shit under these circumstances. The only answer I can ascertain from this condo tour sitch is that dad has been losin’ at the track and we need the extra income generated from paid tourists to make ends meet and feed the monkey? There is no other answer. I mean this 1 bed, 1 bath condo is pretty much rockin’ it 24/7. Mom and dad sleep in their bed, I sleep at the foot of the bed in my dope-ass memory foam dog bed from Orvis, and my sister sleeps in her elevated kennel that doesn’t have a top for some odd reason (she must not be able to jump worth shit, or she’d be out of that fucker chewing up shoes in a heartbeat as soon as we left her to her own devices) right next to my parent’s bed, all in the same room. So obviously everything here is perfect. It must be that we need the extra income–it is the only explanation.

Or could it be that a much more sinister plot is afoot? Is this all an elaborate ruse aimed at confusing The Scoutmeister? Is Jim actually an agent sent by the dog pound to try to sniff out Ol’ Scouter, see where he hangs out on a daily basis, get the 411 on his dump patterns so they know where to find him when the time comes to close the net and ensnare Scout? Maybe try to gauge what sort of fight I’m able to put up when I’m backed into a corner? Now that I ruminate on it a spell, you know what? Jim is often referred to by mom, dad and these toss-pots Jim brings around the condo with the moniker “agent”. Fuckin’ ‘el mates. How could Scout not see it before? That is the answer–Jim is an “agent” for the city dog pound! He’s been sent to monitor The Scoutmeister and report back to his overlords to fill out their dossier on me? It is as clear as day now. They are gonna kill the Ol’ Scouter. Fuck me runnin’. I never saw it happening this way. I always assumed I’d go down defending my family from a pack of roving pit bulls on the west side of Chicago, or maybe a heart attack when I’m 13 while nailing a sassy little 3-year-old mutt bitch. But my own family conspiring with the City of Chicago animal control agents to exterminate The Scoutmeister with extreme prejudice? Egad! I thought it odd my family always disappeared moments before the Jim agent led his fake tours of the condo, but as part of a plot to kill Scout? What the fuck did I ever do? Okay so I bit dad a couple of times when he tried to get too close to my rubber chicken. And my food. And my sweet potato treats. And my stuffed lobster (in all fairness to Scout that lobster was a gift from my grandma and it has sentimental value). And maybe that one time in the park because he tried to take the stick I was chewing. Maybe the stick event has happened multiple times, who the fuck is counting anyway? The point is we could have talked this over like adults (I did just turn 28 in January, I’m old enough to rent cars on my own now) instead of conspiracies and dark plots. This is an outrage.  And of all people, all friggin’ people, even my little sister is in on it? Et tu, Brute? Who diligently eats everything that falls off your high chair the moment it hits the floor so that you aren’t bitched at? Who conducts a thorough all-points sniff-check of your kennel every night before he goes to bed to ensure that you are still breathing? Who has somehow miraculously been able to keep straight which toys belong to you and thus not destroyed them–at least none that weren’t directly asking for it–not even that giggling fucking furry red one that taunts Scout daily? And you are just going to let them sneak up behind The Scoutmeister, ensnare him, to be hauled off and euthanized in some back-alley vet clinic, probably next to some low-born fucking cat! This will not stand. If they think they’ve pulled the wool over Ol’ Scouter’s eyes, they’re wrong. When push comes to shove The Scoutmeister does not flight–he only fights. Just ask that triumvirate of asshole poodles at the corner of Sedgwick and Goethe. Game fucking adversary the Ol’ Scouter is, they’ll tell you. Until the ultimate day of reckoning with the agents, with Jim, with whoever these cowards send, The Scoutmeister waits, and I’m keeping the teeth sharpened. I’ll see you all again, whether on this side or the other…..

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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