FUCK!

What is fuck? Fuck is a wonderful fucking word. It is a noun. It is a verb, it is an adjective. Simply put it is FUCKING AWESOME! Fuck, fuckitty, fuck, fuck fuck. Fuck you, fuck me, fuck him, fuck her, fuck it, fucking fagetaboutit and fuck it all. Fucking sick in the head, fucking out of sight, fucking retarded, fucking out of control, fucking for procreation, fucking for pleasure, fucking for sin, and fucking perverted lovers. Fuckers fuck people over, fuckers are bad drivers, fuckers probably shouldn't be reading this, but fuck them. Fuckhead, fucknut, fuckbag, and fucktard (fucktard is perhaps not appropriate in this fucking politically correct, watered-down version of America). Fuck out of control, until fucking is fucked and all you can think about is the fucking, because fucking is a wonderful fucking thing. Fucking is not making love. Fucking is fucking primal, messy, hot, sweaty, biting, teasing, aggressive, playful, fucking! It is what it is plain and simple. It is fuck, it is fucking, it is being a fucker, and it is being fucked. So fuck what you heard, and act like you know..fuck like everyone is watching, and you want to put on a show. Fuck the fuckers who try and fuck you over. Fuck the fucking politicians and their bullshit money-making ventures while in office. Fuck the fucking corporations for buying and selling us without fucking telling us. Fuck we the people, who slowly get led to the slaughter by the fucking people they put into office. Fuck out-of-control spending by the left and the right. Fuck the haters and the fucking people who don't like swearing. Fuck Jersey Shore, and certainly fuck Snookie. I guess what I'm trying to say is fuck it all, the little, the small. Fuck the dumb bullshit and the people who create it. Fucking is fucking fun when you let it be. Fucking letting your guard down, fucking hard exterior, hard fucking days and nights, and a hard fucking life. So FTW, and certainly fuck people who use WTF, they're fuckers anyway.

HOME

It's quiet. The world still isn't quite awake yet--except for the few men who need to be off to work early. They may be harpooning their wives under the covers, before they head out to miserable jobs at the salt mines, all the while thinking about having a pint with their buddies. The morning explosion inside his women will do for now. It will get him through his hard day, until he can have that first drink or three or ten, or whatever it takes to wash out the taste of the shit he's just had. As he's leaving, he digs through his old lady's purse to find a pen. He scribbles her a note and thanks her, hoping he'll see her tonight, but telling her not to wait up. He'll just slip into bed and into her when he gets home later. His work is horrible, a grunt for the local electric company. He goes into tunnels under the city, repairing frayed electrical lines. Some days his stench is so bad he takes two showers before he slips into bed with his wife. She’s a saint for dealing with a smelly husband. He leaves his work clothes in a garbage bag outside each night he gets home from work-- she hand-washes them, the grime cannot go through a normal wash without ruining the next cycle. Sometimes, she'll just say “fuck it”, and go to a laundromat to throw ‘em in a machine, bringing them home to line dry. Washing clothes by hand is not fun to her. Certainly not her husbands shitty work clothes. His day ends. He throws his clothes in the trash bag, and meets the men at the local watering hole the most fun since he pulled out of his woman. He bellies up to the bar, and they order him a IPA-- he says “no thanks man”, still nursing yesterday’s IPA hangover. He takes a shot of whiskey, then a beer. They talk of how work sucks, but the pay is good, the benefits okay. They'll get to retire at 50 with a nearly full pension. He'll be able to finally start his own electrical business, while collecting a nice pension from the city. So as shitty as things are now, the future always looked promising. After the next set of rounds, he bids the men goodbye for home, to the only woman he's ever loved. While some may be off to see their mistresses, he's going home, like he does every night. He arrives and dinner is waiting for him. His wife is folding clothes. Again. Works 9 - 5, comes home after her day-- cooks, cleans, does laundry. All she asks is the love of a good man. He greets her with a tender kiss on her neck; asks about her day, and listens. Eating a perfectly cooked dinner, he listens to her go on about her day, how her office is so full of assholes, if they could fly, she’d work in an airport. They keep hiring young, know-nothings out of college, because they work on the cheap. She knows her boss is sleeping with one of the new girls, but no one dares to speak of it. He just takes it all in, throws a remark to let her know he is paying attention, but genuinely cares. He finishes dinner, and tells his wife he’s taking a shower. He rinses his dishes, puts them in the dishwasher, heads upstairs. He slips into bed with his wife, hoping to encore the morning. But as they spoon, she asks him a bizarre set of questions: "Honey, why do you stay with me? I mean, I know some of your friends cheat. Why do you stay?" Without thinking on it he says, "I guess I could, but I love you. I have since the day we met. Being with you feels like home. There is no safer, no warmer place than home. It’s how I knew we fit. It's right. You're right. This, this right here, is right." With that, and the honesty in his voice, the sincerity in his eyes, she knew this was a connection. She respected and loved him even more for not having to think his answers. She didn't have to ask, and he didn't have to reassure her. She knew her place in him. Always first. Now she knows, even as they age, home will always be where her heart is-with him

To the Fine People of Chicago I Met This Weekend.

Sitting in the bar solo. Listening to the wonderful ska sounds of Jimmy Cliff. The magic of barley and hops, pursing my lips, makes me long to become a drunkard. The music blaring, but not so loud it's obnoxious. The Bruins on television, with not many people in the bar to watch. Me and two other people are the few cheering them on. It's only 1:30 in the afternoon, so most people are probably recovering from the night before.

There are Cubs fans in the house, as they may be as loyal of fans as the Red Sox fans. Traveling to Boston to watched their beloved team play at Fenway for the first time since the 1918 World Series. Drinking and celebrating, as if their team hadn't lost the night prior by 10 runs. But the people from Chicago aren't bitter, like the people of Boston. They're not alcoholics, as much as they are professional drinkers. Most of their bars do not close at 1 or 2:00 AM, like those of Boston. They know that drinking isn't a race, because the bar is closing soon. Soon doesn't come until 4:00 AM for many of the Chicago bars.

Their great people to drink with. They don't care if their team won or lost. All they care about is having a good time. Discussing how they knew how it was to be a Red Sox fan, since their team hasn't won a Word Series since 1908. Until the Sox won it in 2004, and then again in 2007, Sox fans were miserable, while Cubs fans always said, "Next year is our year." Boston doesn't know Bartman, or the Curse of the Goat. They did have the Curse of the Bambino, and even tried to have a Big Papi jersey entombed in concrete at the new Yankee Stadium, bush league if you ask me. As the Cubs fans would never do anything to the Old Comiskey Park (they'd leave that to Bill Veeck, and Disco Demolition Night) or even the new US Cellular Field on the South Side of Chicago. They have a splendid attitude, to go with their ability to put away the drinks, and to eat with gusto.

They are truly the great sports fans, and professional drinkers of the major metropolis' across this great land. The city boasts a Stanley Cup and a World Series, in the 21st century. They've known multiple basketball titles from their beloved Bulls, but do not own one since MJ left. Their Bears lost a heart-breaker to Payton Manning and his Colts in the Super Bowl. But the city, like their beloved Cubs, are relentless in their pursuit of the good life. Good food, good drinks, and good conversation around it all. I'm happy to have met some of these fine folks this weekend. And wish them and their team nothing but good luck in the future. The one lesson I've learned from them is, I'm not a professional drinker or eater for that matter. I'm more of an observer, that drinks way to fast, knowing I have only until 2:00 AM to finish up whatever hoppy beverages I may be pouring down my gullet. I can learn a lesson or two from these fine folks, as can most of people. Manners, etiquette, and most of all, how to drink long, and slow, while eating a huge Porterhouse, or enjoying a nice bloody burger.

- JSN

Grass Isn't Always Greener on ther Other Side of the Tracks!

When I was a kid, I was home alone usually after school. If I wasn't playing sports, I was out in the neighborhood playing with my friends, or off riding my bike somewhere. I used to ride my bike all over town,  and to baseball practice when I had no ride. I loved that bike. Being a kid, my mom had one rule for me, stay out of trouble. Any trouble I got into, would be returned to me ten fold if I did something wrong. My mom was stern, but very fair. She didn't have an easy time being a single mom. And I didn't necessarily make it easy on her. She knew she could trust me, but she also knew I was easily influenced to do some dumb things.

But this was the 1980's and things were much different then, than they are now. I couldn't see any parent giving their 10 year old child as much leeway as I and most of my friends had growing up. We were the little kings of the neighborhood. We knew every shortcut through any ones yard. We knew who was doing what, and how they were doing things. We knew that if you cut through Old Man Fredricks' yard behind my grandparents house, he'd shoot you with a pellet gun. I still have a mark behind my knee from where the old bastard got me once. I was a little too slow getting over the fence, and he got me good form his garage window. He typically waited for us after school to make sure we didn't cut through his yard. He was also the one to usually got the most stuff done to his house on Mischief Night too. But he deserved it.

Back in those days, we didn't have to wear a helmet to ride a bike. We didn't have tie scores in sports we played. We ALWAYS had a winner and a loser. While you'd get a pat on the back for the good effort, you still lost, and you knew you lost. And while you weren't happy with losing, you knew how to handle it if it happened again. But it is what gave me the competitive drive to not lose. We had summer camps at the neighborhood parks. Each neighborhood in the city had park, and we all compete against one another during the summer months. Those really were the days.

One particular day in the summer of 1984, my friend Butch and myself decided the neighborhood was boring. So we decided to go to the other side of town. This was dangerous because we'd either have to go through Bridgeport (a very dangerous city at the time, especially for two young Caucasian kids riding bikes), or cross over the train tracks. Not just one, but 4 lanes of tracks. Recently someone had been killed on the tracks by a train. So we had that in mind. But we liked out bikes, so we decided we'd walk down the hill from my house, and cross over the tracks. Leaving our bikes at my house.

We left early enough in the afternoon, so we could make it back home before each of our mom's got home from work. So we walked down the hill, and got to the train tracks. We looked each direction, making sure there was nothing we could see or hear. Butch even joked that if you put your ear to the track, you could hear/feel a train coming. I let him do it, b/c I was under the impression a third rail would fry you. I didn't realize that it only killed you if you touched it in the subways of NY (I hadn't been to anywhere else in the world yet to know other places had subway systems too). But I saw him do it, and figured it would be okay. And I wasn't one to back down from doing something. So after realizing we were in the clear, and didn't have to do a train dodge like in Stand by Me, we crossed the tracks, and we now technically on the other side of town. We crossed Stratford Ave, and walked over to Town Fair. Now those not familiar with Town Fair. It was uber ghetto, of all uber ghetto department stores. I think they may have even taken food stamps for clothes, but would ring them up as food. They had a nasty diner in the back of the store too, and a section where they had some quarter video games, like Galaga and Ms. Pacman. But what was also in their parking lot, was a 10 pin bowling alley lanes. My parents, when they were married, and my dad's family were in a bowling league when I was a kid. So I grew up in bowling lanes, and would usually be in this one for a few hours each weekend my dad had visitation rights. I knew how to bowl, before I learned to play any other sport.

But this day wasn't about bowling. My friend Butch and I went to the back of the bowling alley and were hanging out. We ended up finding a lot of cool stuff back there. Old bowling pins, and pin racks, bowling balls, and old pieces of marble or whatever (urethane) they used to make bowling balls out of back then. We found a bowling ball that had been cut in half. It was cool seeing a ball broke in half. I'd never thought you could break one of those things. So we each took turns trying to break it. We tried hitting it with another piece of the ball. We tried rocks, and then finally I had the bright idea to smash it on the ground.

As I raised the piece of the ball up over my head, to get as much leverage into me smashing it on the ground, and I brought it down with a mighty force. An excruciating pain hit me immediately. The sharp edge of the broken ball had sliced off all the meat on my pointer finger on my right hand. There was a huge chunk of skin on the ground, and my finger was bleeding like nothing I've ever seen. Yelling, and screaming, crying, I wrap my finger in my t-shirt, and we run over to the nasty diner inside of Town Fair. The lady behind the counter sees me bleeding everywhere and tells us we can't be in there. We'll scare people away. So she pushes of on those diner napkin holders at me and tells me to grab as many as I need and get out of there. I grabbed every napkin out of that dispenser I could and wrapped them all around my finger. It was not good. Despite having about 100 napkins on my finger, I managed to bleed through all of them.

We walked out of the building and luckily saw a cab in the parking lot, and jumped in. The driver saw I was bleeding badly, and asked if I wanted to go tot he hospital. I knew I'd be in big trouble if I called my mom from the hospital. So quickly thinking, I asked the driver to take me to my grandfathers restaurant down the road a ways. I knew my dad or someone in my family would be working and they could help me out. When we arrived my buddy Butch stayed in the cab, while I ran in and told my family what was going on. They went outside and paid the driver, and then Butch came inside and explained to them what happened. In the meantime, I was in the back kitchen area, and they were taking the napkins off my finger to see how bad it was. They tried to rinse it out with hot water, and saw that all the meat of my pointer finger was gone. It wasn't to the bone, but it was bad. So they wrapped restaurant style dish towels around my finger. They used 5 of them, and I was still bleeding through the towels. So my grandmother suggested my dad take me to the hospital.

My dad brings me to the hospital, and tells me on the way he'll deal with my mom. I may get grounded for a week, but this will certainly teach me a lesson. In the Emergency Room, and they put me in an examining room. The doctor comes in and sees what is happening. They remove the towels from my hand, and it's still dripping with blood. The doctor says I sliced myself pretty good, but seems like I didn't do any never or muscle damage. They said there wasn't much they could do about the skin missing. There was a mention of them taking a piece of skin off my heel and grafting it on to my finger. But the doctor said, it wouldn't be necessary and over time the skin will grow back. He also told me, I'd always have a cool scar on my finger and one of the most unique fingerprints going. So don't get in trouble, because I'd easily get caught with a print like that. And he chuckled while saying it. I didn't find it to funny. Especially since he was rinsing out my open wound with Bacitracin, and something to numb it up and stop the bleeding. They couldn't put a stitch in it. It was one of the worse pains I've ever experienced, and probably the most blood I lost since I broke my nose when I was 6 years old.

My mom arrived at the hospital a few minutes after I got there. I guess my Gram had called her to let her know what was going on. My mom has a tough time with blood, so it's good she missed the gross part. She may have passed out from all the blood. So my mom brings me and Butch back home. We each got grounded for a week for crossing the train tracks. But we had a great story to tell the kids at school when we got back, and I'll always have a cool scar on my finger. It still hasn't fully grown back to this day, some 25 years later.

But that was the day I learned, the grass isn't always greener on the other side of the tracks.

- Joe Nicholas

I hope you enjoyed this true story. Please leave any feedback you'd like.

Introduction to Chartreuse or Is that Guy on Coke Night

This story is all true. Sad, but all true indeed. I'm such a lightweight when it comes to drinking. I used to be able to hold my own, but over the years, the tolerance for booze has dwindled to a slow crawl, followed by a stagger, and then another crawl to the alter to pray to the Porcelain God. Only, my Porcelain God was in a downstairs bar bathroom. Right across from a table full of people. But I'm getting ahead of myself now.

I met my friend and her cousin out after work one evening for a few drinks at a bar my friend works at. My friend also brought a few of her work friends with her, so we had a good group of people out. My friend the bartender, sends us over a round of whatever we want. So the previous week, he had introduced me to this liqueur called Chartreuse. A drink so fine, they named a color after it.  Chartreuse is a French liqueur made by the Carthusian Monks since the 1740's. It is distilled with 132 herbal spices and it actually distills while still in the bottle and ages really nicely. The green Chartreuse (the one we'd drink) is 110 proof or 55%. But when mixed properly you don't even taste it. So my friend mixed us all up a couple of Chartreuse Gimlets and we drank them while talking. Mind you, we had all been drinking at a previous bar for a bit, before walking over to my friends place.

After the first round, a couple of the people in the group leave, and some go out to crank a butt. But while they go out, we order Dark & Stormy's for them, and I order another Chartreuse drink. Not really thinking much about the alcohol content, the drink was going down rather nicely. So my friends return and we continue our conversation, mostly about work, and chit-chat. I was hearing some news about the outside world, and events that may or may not have conspired. Their drinks are done, and we order another round. All the same, and one of her friends switches to beer. So here we are, it's only an hour and a half or so in, and I'm 3, 110 proof drinks in, and I'm feeling no pain. My friend, she looks at me and asks if I'm okay, and I said I'm fine, I just need to go pee. Having one kidney, I have to pee a lot when I'm drinking. At the same time, I shouldn't really be drinking at all, but oh well.

Going to the bathroom the first time, I did really only pee, but I was leaning against a wall while going, so I knew the third drink had really done me in. Also, being a little shit, I tagged the stall I was in with Plotkin, using a marker I had for some reason. But I realized it wouldn't last long on the tile. And I pussed out, and made it really small. So it doesn't really count does it? Washed my hands, and walked back out to my friends. My buddy the bartender, asks me if I want another drink. So I order a beer, just to change it up a bit, and figure liqueur before beer, in the clear. So I figured it wouldn't hurt. OH BOY, was I wrong. I couldn't have been worse. One of my friends looks at me after the first sip and I said I'll be right back. I head to the bathroom, and I knew it wasn't going to be pretty. As I'm walking to the bathroom, there is a table of people just across from the bathroom door. So they saw me just a few minutes earlier walking in and out of the bathroom. I see them looking at me with the "why is he going in there again so soon?" look on their faces. So I go into the bathroom. With my mouth watering, and I know I'm about to puke. I don't go anywhere close to the toilet, but raise the seat up with my foot. and proceeded to unleash all 110 proof and ever piece of the 132 herbs that I had poisoned myself with into the toilet. Being neat, and not getting any on the floor or the toilet. I finished puking, and washed my hands, rinsed my mouth out, splashed some water on my sweaty face and returned back to my friends.

On my way out, I see the people at the table give me a dirty look. So I go back to my friends, and they ask me if I'm okay. I let them know I should be fine now. I ask my buddy at the bar for a coke, and he gives me one. No pun intended, as I've never tried it, but it's funny I mention it. So I drink my drink, and I tell my friends I'll be right back. I head towards the bathroom one more time, and this time the table of young ladies are all giving me the eyes. These aren't the "we want to F*ck You" eyes. These are the "What the F*ck is Up with this Guy?" eyes. I know what their thinking, but they really don't know. So I go into the bathroom and I proceed to unload in the bowl again. It's still not a pretty sight. Someone comes in and hears me. Asks if I'm OK, and I tell him, "nothing a little praying won't cure." He laughs and heads out. He didn't wash his hands I thought to myself. Dirty bugger. I finish up, and same thing, wash hands, rinse mouth out with water, and splash water on sweaty face. Dry off, and head out. But by now I'm sure I look like Rick James circa 1982. These girls look totally disgusted now, and I just chuckle. I just want to tell them I'm not doing coke. I'm just getting sick. But I let the charade go on.

I get back to my friends and they tell me I don't look good and ask if I want to leave. So, I said sure. We paid my buddy and left him a little something extra for the effort. On my way out, my bartender friend asks me if I'll be okay, and I let him know I'm done with Chartreuse. I'll see him soon. We head outside, and part our ways. I walked back to my office. Through the Boston Common and the Public Garden. Up the Commonwealth Ave mall back to my office. The fresh air felt good, and it was helping me to sober up a bit. At this point, I knew I couldn't drive home. So I got back to the office, grabbed my things, and took the train back to my stop. Now I didn't realize I wasn't going to be able to catch my normal bus from the train station to my house. So I was stuck having to take a cab the 2.8 miles across town to my house. Little did I realize the cab ride was going to cost me just as much as if I had taken it from Boston. After a round about ride. I told the driver Tommy, that we were going a round about way to get me home. So we finally arrive and the meter reads $24. I was shocked and Gave the guy $25 for the effort and the ass raping.

So that was the night I was introduced to Chartreuse, and I horrified some ladies into thinking I was doing coke in the bathroom.

-Joe Nicholas

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please leave any feedback you'd like.

The Toast

So yesterday was St. Patrick's Day. I find it funny that the Irish's sworn patron Saint, is actually a Brit. Yes, St. Patrick was born in Britain, yet he is revered by the Irish. He is however, most likely responsible for the Celtic Cross, as he added the sun (a pagan symbol to represent fire, used by the Irish to worship their Gods), to the top of the cross, so for that he may be their Saint. He also spread Christianity throughout Ireland, using the traditional Irish ways, and mixing them in with that of Christianity. He did this to not alienate the Irish people. Letting them keep a portion of their heritage, with there new found religion of Christianity.

This leads me to a toast made yesterday. While having a few afternoon pops for the Cinco De Mayo for Gringos, and celebrating the start of the NCAA tourney, a fine group of young Canadian men walked into a bar I frequent. They happened to also be with a former famous hockey player who shall not be named. But he's definitely a guy you want to be running with at the bars on St. Patrick's Day. He knows everyone, no one will mess with him, and you'll get drinks bought for you by him or the bartenders all night.

I chatted with the hockey guy for a few, and he introduced me to his young Canadian friends. They're in the town for the weekend for the Drop Kick Murphy shows, and for the Southie St. Patrick's Day Parade on Sunday. After getting to know these guys for a few, they start to get a little rowdy. They had apparently been drinking since 9:30 at another bar with the hockey guy (HG from now on). So the sauce is flowing in these guys, and they are just now starting to get some food in them before a short trip to their hotel for a possible nap, a joint, and some more food and beverages before the Drop Kick show at HOB. 

So they buy me a round, and I thank them. As the round comes out for all of us. One of the guys in the group, whose been complaining that his friends bust his balls too much. They don't pick on anyone but him. And when they do, they "sandbag" him. I asked what "sandbagging" meant, as I've only heard it in terms of sports and cards, when someone says their not as good as they really are. So he says "Yeah sandbagging. Chicks pull the shit all the time when they want to fight with you. They keep shit in a bag, and they pull stuff out against you that you did like 8 years ago, just to bust balls. That's what these wankers do to me." So apparently his friends make fun of him like girls do. I thought it was funny. Especially with them saying "Hay" after a lot of the jokes. Yes they really do say it "hay". 

This leads me to the toast. As the new round came out. My new found friends from the north tell me, we can't drink without making a toast. He says, it's St. Patrick's day, and while he's not Irish, one of his buddies in the group is. So he stands up on his chair. The bartender tells him to take it easy, and HG says relax, kids okay. Kid says, "Today we are all Irish. Small dicks and fucked up livers for everyone." Cheers all around, as he steps down from the stool. HG, being the great, smart man that he is says, "I'm Irish, and I have a 9.5" penis. And I'm uncircumcised, which is odd for a Canadian." And on that note, I finished my drink, having learned way too much about the HG. I bought a round in return, and I wished them well and headed out.

- Joe Nicholas

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please leave any feedback. All is welcome.

The Day I Stopped Believing in Santa and God

So this is the story about how I stopped believing in Santa and God on the same day. It's a rather funny story, full of innocence lost. While I hope no young children should ever read this and ruin the idea of Santa, I wonder how many other children learned there is no Santa in the same manner.

So I was 8, and living with my mom who was a working mom single parent. She was the absolute best. We had just finished putting the star on the tree, and the milk and cookies out for Santa. I left a note by the cookies, and was off to bed. Or so my mom thought. I did go into my room for a short bit, and pretended to fall asleep, but I was only faking when she came in to check on me.

Finally after I heard her bedroom door close, I snuck out into the living room and sat quietly near the tree waiting for Santa. There were a few presents out already from my mom and her boyfriend, but nothing yet from Santa. I thought "This is great, he hasn't been here yet." The cookies hadn't been eaten yet either. This was my chance. I knew I was going to meet Santa on this night.

I must have dozed off for a few, but I was awoken to the sound of "Oh God, Oh God, Oh, God!", so realizing it was coming from my mom's room, I ran into her room worried, only to catch her having sex with her boyfriend. So she yells at me "What are you doing in here?" and I said all innocently, "I was waiting up for Santa...and." and she yells at me, "There is no Santa." I was dejected, and looking down, I said, "well where is God?" and she yelled at me, "There is no God! Now get out of here and go to bed." So I closed the door and turned to go to my room. I was frustrated, embarassed and upset. As I walked by, I grabbed the cookies and milk and I went to my room and went to bed. But that was the night I stopped believing in Santa and God.

I hope you enjoyed this. Please leave any feedback you'd like.

- Joe Nicholas