The Scout Chronicles: We Gonna Drink Bacardi Like its Scout’s Birthday….

You see that picture over there to the right???  That is going to be Scout all day tomorrow baby.  So don’t fuck with me on Saturday.  The Scoutmeister is going to be hungover, probably as bad–if not worse–than “The Hangover”.  And just let Mike Tyson’s punk ass try to punch me in the face.  Bite his dick so fast his face tats will spin.  Today is Scout’s birthday, cockgobblers!  Everyone thinks 1/20/09 was special because apparently it was the day that the first dark-skinned American president was inaugurated.  Fucking laughable mein!  1/20/09 is meaningful because that is the day that Zeus opened up the fucking skies and shot the Ol’ Scouter down to earth in a lightning bolt.  I have never understood why people get so hyped up about our president being dark-skinned.  Who gives a fuck what color our president’s skin is?  If you like the mutherfucker, why would you care if he is black, brown, yellow, spotted, honey, whatthefuckever???  My mom is red, my dad is yellow, my sisters are rust, my brother is apricot and guess what I am?  Fucking awesome, that’s what.  You dumbass humanoids waste a shitload of time talking about people’s hides.  You think Scout isn’t humping a bitch just because she’s gray?  I guess you don’t know Scout then.  But Scout digresses.  You don’t have to be an Asian Chow Chow with an abacus to do the math on what that makes today: The Scoutmeister is 3 years old.  And I think you know what that means?  In humanoid terms Scout is 21.  I’m gonna get my drink on tonight.  Believe that.  Put the bitches and puppies to bed, Scout is going out lookin’ for dinner.  Been drinkin’ tap water for yonks, and now it’s my turn to get faded.  Mom, Dad and my sister did start the day off pretty nicely for Scout, to be honest.  I was serenaded in bed early in the morning–a bit too early since the little diva started squawking well before dawn–with some song about happy birthday (pretty fucking lame, if you ask me) and an oversized sweet potato treat.  Well slap me on the ass and call me Susan.  Waking up to a giant sweet potato treat followed by my usual breakfast being new to the Scoutmeister, I promptly puked it the fuck up two hours later.  But don’t go feeling too sorry for me.  I waited for a moment until the swoon passed, and then then ate that shit right up off the floor, like a gangstah.  Mom and Dad are always gargling, blowing their noses, acting repulsed, moaning, going into total hysterics when they puke.  And then they flush it down the shit receptacle that I still haven’t come close to figuring out.  Why would you waste all that perfectly good puke and make a scene like a little bitch?  I just stand over it like a boss and eat it right back up.  Don’t try to come running over to my puke with the paper towels either.  A little know fact about the Ol’ Scouter is that he’ll bite your shit over his own puke.  Goddamn right.  That is food.  You can waste yours all you want, but I don’t have that luxury.  How am I to know that next time my pack goes out hunting, they are unable to kill a bag of whitefish and potato blend dry food?  What if they strike out on the hunt?  Then I’m fucked.  So I’m gonna eat what I got while I gots it.  If that offends you it’s your problem.  So belly full of puke and ready to rock it tonight.  Beers, shots, bitches, shots, maybe a bong rip, Scout is ready to tear shit up all over Chicago.  If you see me hit the club buy me a shot, I only turn 3 once.  Mom and Dad, you might want to put sissy to bed early cuz Scout is comin’ home loaded!   

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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One Response to The Scout Chronicles: We Gonna Drink Bacardi Like its Scout’s Birthday….

  1. avc says:

    Well don't i feel like a giant ass hat for neglecting to bring Scoutmeister Giles a 40 oz of OE to drink with Zeus on the promenade this weekend. You bring new meaning to “hair of the dog,” big boy. Happy birthday!

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