Self Admitted Jerk

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14 Beers, 2 Foul Mouths, 1 Broken Hearted Right Fielder

posted March 7, 2012 / 1 Comment

I have a foul mouth. And an impeccable disability in self-censoring myself when sauced on the bottle. Pair these up with a colleague who suffers the same crippling disease I do, and what otherwise would be an innocent night out at the ball game, turns into a murderous rampage of questionable vocabulary. 20 bucks for a pair of Cubs bleacher tickets is a steal in any month of the baseball season. Unfortunately, these steals only come up usually in the second or third week of April. After the luster of the season has worn off, the cold of the never-ending winter lulls itself back in, and those left are stuck sitting in freezing rain and snow, in mostly empty bleacher seats. So imagine my surprise during the second week of April when I received an email asking if I wanted these previously mentioned tickets. Not wanting to miss a Cubs loss, I happily agreed. The forecasted temperature was a nippy 55 degrees, but nothing terribly miserable. A coat and a few beers, and I’d be certainly alright. It snowed the night before the game. The day of the game, the wind swept so hard against the field, that the game was postponed for the next day. So my friend Brittney and I delegated ourselves to next day’s game, nervously awaiting the arrival of tomorrow’s broken-ass weather. The morning came, and mother nature refused to release its icy-windy grip of winter upon Chicago. Due to scheduling, the game couldn’t be rescheduled, and thus Brittney and I brought ourselves to the park. Bundling ourselves in layers of warmth, in the false, yet pineful hope of staying warm in the open-air field at Wrigley. Brittney thankfully, had us covered. Stashed in the deep dark pits of her oversized purse, were multiple flasks containing the cheapest gin you could find. Thinking ourselves as modern Day Civil War-era Doctors, we prescribed ourselves a 50/50 mix of Sprite and Booth’s, the gin chosen among only the most sophisticated of Aristocrats. The game wore on. We drank. And drank. The innings moved at a snail’s pace. Outfielders [...]

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5 Ways to Guarantee You’ll be a One-Night Stand

posted March 2, 2012 / No Comments

I’ve been on a few dates in my time, and have learned the time honored tradition of knowing when to run the fuck away when the warning signs become clear that a lady may only be good for the evening. 1. Referring to her parents as Mommy or Daddy. This one sets the sirens off right away. Not only is it strange to continue with the child-like wonder of your parents deep into your 20s, it’s even worse when I’m sitting at a bar in a drunken haze, trying to get to know you better. Then, when I slur out something along the lines of asking how your parents managed to send you to Yale, the last thing I want to hear is “Well, Mommy and Daddy worked extra super hard for me to make it in this world! I’m ever so grateful!” It reeks of a dear old girl who has some major abandonment issues. Unfortunately, I’ll be the reason for your next therapy session, when I too, take a runner off into the far, far distance. 2. Unannounced children. There’s a point in every beginning relationship where you start to evaluate whether or not you want to keep whatever it is you have, going. Maybe you already slept with her, maybe you haven’t. You might even be ready to tell her you’re ready to commit for the next 6 months, at least. These hopes are dashed, however, when you decide to either drop the kid conversation not on the first date, but the third date. Or you even call off everything, and decide to bring the kid to the bar with you. I’ll pretend to be this kids father for the next hour or two, but I’m sure as shit not going to be this kid’s child support or moral center. 3. You belong to a sorority. Rick James has had you pegged since the early 80s. You are not the type I will ever bring home to Mother/Mommy. In fact, I will not even bring you to my awesome Uncle’s house, even though he’s [...]