Archive for September, 2008

Folks, I’m just gonna go ahead and give it to ya’ll straight-up: there is just about nothing in the world better than spending a lazy Sunday afternoon chillaxin’ on the old sof’ and wasting the whole day away watching the bright and shining stars of the NFL do their thang. Add about a dozen or so frosty cans of easy drinkin’ Busch beer to the mix and you’ve damn near put me up with the angels in heaven. And this is especially true for me right now because I’m too cheap to pay Cox Cable any of my hard earned money, so the fact that these blessed events are beamed into my living room on 2 of the 4 fuzzy chanels that I get makes it that much sweeter. Yet with all the good that I speak of, there is one teensy drawback to spending the whold day glued to a TV set that happens to be tuned in to CBS:

For fuck’s sake, if I have to see another damn advertisement for “Two And a Half Men,” I swear I’m gonna go on a violent stabbing spree that will not end until the blood of at least thirty innocent citizens washes through the streets of midtown Tucson. And it doesn’t stop with 2AAHM (as they refer to it on the blogs.) There’s ‘The Mentalist.” Man, I really like to see how a twice-embarrased Eagles’ defense will hold up against the balanced offensive attack of the Steelers, so therefore I must surely be ecstatic about series premier of “The Mentalist.” Oh my gosh, the Dolphins are actually beating the Patriots, in New England no less, and Oh My Gosh, the “NICS” team is breaking up! Please, continue to show me an ad explaining how devestating it is that the folks of NICS are breaking up everytime you cut to a commercial (witch is apparently at every stoppage of play, you bastards.)

And the barrage of CBS programming ads isn’t even the end of it. What’s even worse are the numerous attempts at in-game advertising, where the commentators are forced to plug their chanel’s dramatic and comic offerings during the freakin’ games. I know good and well that Jim Nantz has a million poetic nuggets about football that he would rather be spouting instead of telling us that “CSI: Miami” is America’s favorite thing to zone out to in the evening, but tell us he must and groan I will. Oh man, there’s an in-game plug for “The Mentalist,” and then they cut to a shot of the Patriots’ head coach. Brilliant! And commentators, please for the love of God, don’t tell me your personal opinions about whatever shit show your broadcasting parter was forced to plug. Dan Dierdorf, your a good ex-football player and a crappy analyst, I don’t care that you think that “How I Met Your Mother” is “well written.” Let’s keep it about football, shall we?

Ugh, it’s like they are trying to make it as hard and as painful as it can possibly be to just veg out, nurse a hangover and enjoy a game of compettitive, American football. And don’t think that just because I’m picking on CBS that they are the only ones to blame. Fox, you suck too.

But with all my bitching, there is definitely something to like about watching football on network TV for 10 straight hours. I’m refering of course to Howard Long:


Yes, it is true that his musings on football are asinine, his playful joking with his pregame show co-host seems awkward and forced, and his demenor reeks of unabashed conservatism; but damn if that man can’t sell the shit out of Big Ass Trucks. The commercials where he is all up in his Big Ass Ford Truck and goads other dudes in slightly smaller trucks to do bold and manly things are absolutely hilarious. God bless you, Howie. Keep on goading those dudes on and I’ll keep on watching.


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Chapter 1

Wild in the Streets

Carl Winslow was damn good police. Not a single man in the Chicago P.D. would ever dare to say otherwise. Carl Winslow was damn good on his best days and damn good even on his worst days. And having to put three rounds into a twenty year-old gangbanger, two of them in the chest and one in the head, shooting him dead right there on the street, would certainly put today in the category of one of his “worst days.” Carl had killed two men before today; one, a child molester who lunged at him with a knife while in custody; another, a man who hopped on a bus and stabbed three old ladies and then threatened to keep doing it until someone put him down. But this one was different. This one was the exact same age as his son, Eddie. This one might as well of also shot Carl in the chest twice and in the head once. This one could just about make a man quit the force.

This one was Steffon Urkelle, the alter-ego of his annoying neighbor, Steve.

Carl took a long drag off of his cigarette and tried to unwind in his living room easy chair. The dinner that his wife Harriette had prepared for him, a feast of collared greens and pigs feet, a feast that normally filled him with about as much pleasure as anything in the world could, was left on the dining room table completely uneaten and getting cold and rotten. Carl never thought a day would go by in which he wouldn’t want to eat one of his wife’s dinners, but the guilt that festered deep inside of him brought on by his deplorable act made it impossible for him to eat. Impossible for him to eat or to think straight or to love or to even want to live.

A deplorable act. That’s what was but it would never be officially described as so. To the Chicago Police department, to the men on the force, to the city courts and to everyone that would ever read about it in the newspaper page it will be considered a heroic act by a heroic poblic servant; a good deed carried out by a trusted law officer in danger, attempting to make the city streets just that much safer for the 5 million residents that walked them everyday.

But it was a crime of passion. Steffon had violated his daughter Laura’s body repeatedly and Carl knew this and for this reason Carl could not allow Steffon to live. Steve was an annoying kid with a piercing voice, and with a knack for almost weekly destruction, hijinks and japery, usually at Carl’s expense. His acts could drive a man to the absolute brink of sanity; but they could not drive a man to kill. Yet when Steve built that machine and transformed himself into the suave, debonair, lecherous, malicious and philandering Steffon, things changed. When Steffon tricked and decieved his way into his daughter’s life, things changed. When Steffon placed his manhood inside Laura Winslow’s body on the night of Saturday, November 19th, things fucking changed. And when Carl Winslow shot Steffon dead in cold blood the next morning and then altered the scene of the crime to make it disappear into one of Chicago’s thousands of drug-related killings, things changed forever.

But to Carl Winslow, there is only one thing that matters.

Family matters.

[to be continued…]

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As even a novice to the sport of Based-Balls knows, “hitting for the cycle” is the rare feat of an individual player hitting a single, a double, a triple and (you guessed it) a homerun all in the same game. But what if, as my friend and fellow bloggerator once posited, you could hit for the “sex cycle”? Instead of trying to achieve 4 different types hits, you try to bed 4 different races of lady. And much like the 9 inning constraint of a Major League Baseball game (gives or takes,) you also have to accomplish this formidable goal within a set boundry of time (perhaps all in the same day?) As those who know me can attest, I’m crazy for the P.T., but even with my voracious sexual appetite, the most I’ve ever done in a day is knock a single (and many of those are arguably cases of me “reaching on an error.”) But this is the internets, where a man can live out his wildest fantasies without reproach, so please allow me to share with you how I envision hitting for the sex cycle.

For this exercise, I’ve adopted the following scale:

-Single = White Gal
-Double= Mamita Latina
-Triple = Asian Honey
-Donger = Nubian Princess

Note: The value I’ve assigned each race is not a statement on which I prefer (The Crain Train finds all women of all races and ethnicities to be equally beautiful, except Lithuanians) but is instead based solely on rarity of boning down with each.

Also for this exercise, to keep with the baseball analogy, I’m adopting the form of Wade Boggs:

Top of the 1st

The night has just begun and I find myself leading off. I know I should let a few go by to get a better idea of what I’ll be facing over the course of the evening, but I’m ancy to get going. I take a swing at the first thing I see that looks hittable, and while it’s not the prettiest pitch, it’s definitely something I can handle. I don’t make great connection, but I’m able to sneak one up the middle and get the evening off to a fast and productive start:


Top of the 3rd

It’s the second time through the order and I’m very confidant up in the batter’s box. This time around it’s not quite so easy, as I have to fight off several really nasty ones with a lot of movement. A few come my way that look tempting at first but end up being way too low in the strike zone for someone with my picky eye to offer at. Then I’m given a gift: a fat, juicy one headed right down the middle, just begging to be stroked. The pitch is moving fast, but that’s just the way I like it, and there is no way this one is getting by me. I put out the lumber and deposit a deep one:


Top of the 6th

I’m up again and now I’m really feeling it. On this night it seems that I can get my wood on anything I want, and so far the results have been Hall Of Fame material. Now I’m squaring up against the relief corps and getting a good look at some brand new pitches. I don’t have much experience with what’s being offered to me, but I feel just too damn comfortable inside the box to call it a night and hit the showers. I lay off of a spitter and let a big hooker go right by me, but then I finally get the big change-up that I’ve been waiting for. I muscle up, strike quick, find a gap and find myself in a perfect position to score:


Top of the 9th
It’s getting late in the evening and although I’ve already done enough tonight to be named Player of the Game, I’m dying to get up just one more time, completely unload and score again. I dig in and realize that I’m all out of sexually-oriented baseball double entendres. The pitcher is beautiful and she throws me a big, easy sex ball. I’m naked at the plate and literally begin to make sweet love. Something else happens with a big stick, an orgasm, a foul ball and a long donger.


Well folks, that’s how I see this whole “cycle” business going down. Feel free to imagine how your very own version of hitting for the sex cycle would transpire. And if your not a baseball fan, try for the “sex triple-double,” the “sex hat-trick” or maybe even the “two fat ladies.” If you can do it in sports, you can do it under the sheets!

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Ooh, boy! 25 years young and thankful for every single day so far, except for the one where I got poison oak and threw up from eating too many PB & J’s all in the same afternoon, and also maybe the one where my mom didn’t let me go and see Robocop 3 in the movie theater even though I had watched the second one on tape and it was totally fine (thanks a lot, mom!) Man, I’ve really gone through a lot in these first 25 anos. Many friends have been gained, then lost, then gained again because they got a Sega Genesis for Christmas. Countless lessons have been learned, the vast majority of them pertaining to fast food restaurants and how to effectively utilize their dollar menus (try hitting two in the same day, folks!) Literally hundreds of cans of delicious Busch Beer have been poured down the old gullet, with hundreds more having been sacrificed to many scenic Missouri rivers. All in all, it’s been a wild ride, and I wouldn’t trade any of my experiences for anything in the world, except for perhaps a large sum of money and a San Diego Chargers cheerleader, then I would trade them in a hummingbird’s heartbeat.

But when a man hits his quarterlife, he starts to do a lot of thinking, particularly about the future and what he may like to accomplish, particularly in the next quarter (of his life.) It’s at this point that things are going to really start changing, where life gets a whole lot more serious and a whole lot more real. While I feel I’ve done a lot of great and important things over the course of my first 25 years (like when I got ESPN for free one time just by jiggling around an old cable wire and an A/V channel switcher,) the goals I set for myself and the lifestyle decisions that I make until the time I hit midlife are going to be the ones that really shape who I am. Please allow me to share with you a few of these things:

Own a Moped

Dudes, this just seems like a really easy decision to make. A moped fits the lifestyle and the needs of a quarterlifer to an absolute “T.” It’s financially and environmentally sound, which are two things that a quarterlifer definitely needs to be concious of. It is perfect for driving to work, and as a responsible quarterlifer, you can bet that I have a job. I could also easily take it to the supermarket and put some fresh fruits and vegitables and some nice cuts of lean beef in its handy storage space, because let’s face it, I’m a quarterlife old now, and I don’t need to be eating fast food all the damn time anymore. And who knows, maybe sometime soon I’ll have a few little quarterlifers of my own running around, and what better way to spend some quality time with dad then to zoom around on the old moped? Yep, I definitely need to by one of these things.

Date a Black Girl

Again, not a difficult decision for a rational, intelligent quarterlifer to make. I’ve 25 years of life experience and if I’ve ever harbored any prejudices against people of a different “flavor” then they should all be forgotten by now (except ones about Lithuanians, the are idiots.) As a quarterlifer, I’m not to old for younger people to still be looking up to me, and I’m not to young for older people to cast away all of my actions as pre-quarterlife childishness. Because of this, I really think it’s important to give off an air of quarterlife tolerance and diversity, and what better way to do this than to bone down with a black chick? Dating a black girl would also help me gain some much needed street cred, and in this modern world, a quarterlifer can take all of the cred he can get. Also, I must say that I really do like my women like I like my coffee: hot, black, early in the morning and served in a mug.

Eat More Paninis

Come on guys, Panini just screams out “Quarterlife.” I mean, it’s grilled, buttery Italian breads, succulent meats and cheeses, crisp veggies, delicious dijon and ranch dressing; what quarterlifer in his or her right mind wouldn’t love to chow down on one of these things everyday for lunch? Sure, regular old sandwiches are good, but a little kid can make and enjoy a sandwich. A panini takes the astute tastebuds and cool sensibilities of a someone who has lived for at least a quarterlife to truely enjoy and understand. Going to a deli and ordering a panini will definitely help me get entrenched in the daily life of a “quarty,” and it’s gonna taste pretty damn good too.

Well, those are just a few of the important life decisions that I’m going to hopefully be making in the coming years. I’ve got plenty more ideas, but I don’t want to share all of them with you; some of you quarterlifers out there are going to figure some stuff out on your own.

One Quarterlife down and here’s to at least 3 more!

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One of the great perks of working in the fast-moving world of information sciences is that there is ample time to cruise the web and discover all sorts of interesting facts, many of them not related to watching people having sex. One of my favorite things while internetting is to look at my great state’s list of recently executed death row inmates with vivid descriptions of their heinous crimes and even vivider descriptions of what they had for their last meal. Let’s peruse the list:

Michael Poland

His Crime
Mr. Poland disguised himself as a highway patrolman and took hostage 2 armored gaurds in the middle of a lengthy bank run. After stealing more than 300 large from the van, he and his brother took the guards captive, brought them to a lake on the Arizona-Nevada border, tied them in canvas bags and dumped them in the water.

His Meal
3 Fried eggs, sunny side up; 4 Slices of bacon; 1 order of hash brown potatoes: 2 slices of whole wheat toast, with two pats of real butter; 2 individual serving size boxes of Raisin Bran cereal; 2 cartons of milk; 2 cups of Tasters Choice coffee

As someone who loves breakfast food, I think this is a really solid last meal. Eggs pop up frequently on many of the inmates’ lists, and for good reason (not to mention the irony of ordering them “sunny side up.”) I’m not sure what a “pat” of butter is, but I’m sure it is plenty. I always loved it when my mom bought the individual sized cereal boxes, and one wonders if Mr. Poland requested them or if that’s just all the prison had on hand. At least they gave him the real name brand stuff and not Bran-O’s or Raisiny Bran Flakes or some other type that just comes in that big bag. The coffee is a nice touch because the last thing you want to do when you’re being lethally injected is to nod off.

Robert Vickers

His Crime
Already on Death Row, Vickers was upset about a comment that fellow inmate Buster Holsinger had made about his niece. Pretending to be doing clean-up chores, Vickers snuck up to Holsinger’s cell, doused him with some saved up Vitalis and launched a burning strip of toilet paper inward, proceeding to burn Holsinger to his death.

His Meal
Green Chili Burros, burritos with barbecued steak, french fries and ketchup, vanilla ice cream, cream soda, a cigarette.

This meal is interesting because very few of the inmates stray too far from classic American fare. Burgers, steak, bacon, pie — these items seem to dominate last meal menus. It’s nice to know that people who immolate their fellow inmates for calling their niece “melon butt” are culinary individualists. Although I have to question the french fries and ketchup. Fries are great, but it’s your last meal, make ’em curly fries or ranch fries or even O-rings. Same with the cigarette; sure it’s a nice end to a meal, but why not a cigar? You fucking earned it, buddy. And one would hope that Vickers had the wherewithall to mix the cream soda and the vinilla ice cream to make a delectible pre-execution float.

John Brewer

His Crime
Brewer was informed by his live-in girlfriend, Rita Brier that she was going to leave him. He then locked the bedroom door and began to beat and strangle Brier, finally killing her with a tie. After resting from the violent struggle, Brewer showered and then had sex with Rita’s corpse. He then walked to a bowling alley, called the police and turned himself in.

His Meal
3 Grilled Pork Chops with gravy, 1/4 lb. Bacon, 6 Fried breaded Shrimp, Beef Rice-a-Roni, 2-3 slices French Bread with butter, Applesauce, 2 cans Canada Dry Ginger Ale with ice, 1 slice Coconut Cream Pie, 1 pint orange juice, 1 can Chicken Noodle Soup with Crackers, 1 can Pear halves with syrup, Maxwell House Coffee with cream and sugar.

This really seems less like a last meal then it does a list of the items a frantic contestant would grab on Supermarket Sweep, although I have to admit that young Mr. Brewer has the right idea. If there is ever a time to completly gorge on food, a last meal is definitely it. It’s not like you have any health concerns at this point, and you might as well spend as much of the taxpayers’ money as possible. I also like that he has covered all of the meal bases (breakfast, lunch, dinner and desert) which I feel a lot the inmates on this list failed to do. God damn, I can’t believe this kid fucked a corpse.

Robert Comer (hey, comer is “to eat” in Spanish)

His Crime
Robert and his girlfriend, Juneva Willis, were at a campground and invited neighboring campers over for dinner. Instead of actually having diner, Comer shot one of the neighbors in the head and stole his belongings. He and his girlfriend then went to another campsite, hogtied the husband to a car fender raped his wife in front of him and then kidnapped her.

His Meal
Fried Okra, 4 Buns, Butter (lots,) Salt (lots,) Banana Bread (2 slices)

Yeah, this guy is pretty f’ed up.

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