Daily Limerick
Archives: January 2010

Contains Mature (and immature) Content;If You’re a Minor, Go Away!


NOTE: DL has not yet taken the time to put "anchors" into the archives. Translation: You're gonna have to scroll all the way through the long-ass documents (use your "find" commands, squatlicks)!



To all, a Happy Twenty-Ten!

Is starting a "new life" your yen?

Res'lutions? Don't bother!

Make self-love that fodder...

You'll just be YOU, 'gain and again...



Chief Limericist checked-in, here.

Oh, my aching head... And, now that I think of it... Oh, my aching taint...

Happy Extra Cheezy New Year!...



TODAY'S EDITION: It's New Year's Day

...And there's no way in hell I'm penning an edition for today...



Brit Murphy's dead? Pure tragic news!

But wearing "Youthful Star Death" shoes?

Where're parties? Wild drugs?

I guess I'm just bugged

by fact that the tale is a snooze!



You know, the day we actually wrote...or at least scribbled today's edition happened to be New Year's Day.

That's all for the news...

Happy First Extra Cheezy Saturday of 2010!...



"Experts," tryin' to quell our fears,

note, "Job cuts are down o'er last year."

Seems hopeful news but...

Few jobs LEFT to cut

with Recession's gig-slashing shears!



Has anybody else noticed that, like daytime diner traffic more recently, since the implementation of non-public smoking rules, NOBODY whatsoever hangs out in apartment/building lobbies anymore?...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)

TODAY'S EDITION: Happy Birthday Mom!

Yes, it's my mother's birthday today. I probably should squeak out a tale concerning my mom, but this is the first edition of the New Year, officially done with all the Holidays, and I don't feel like it, so piss-off, ass clowns...







TODAY'S POEM: There Isn't One!


No, that's not just a gimmicky poem title... Mr. Chmielecki is actually taking his very first vacation from this feature--going way back to 2000!

Between the hangover and taking down the Christmas tree here in the Daily Limerick Towers, we can't say we blame 'em...


[If you'd like to praise or berate the poet, e-mail him at mpchmielecki@gmail.com. He won't bite--although he may chew a bit.]



A slut in a Vegas revue

banged tourist whom she barely knew.

Took her in the ass

'gainst suite's window glass--

and she got a "ream with a view"!



With all the Holiday Hubbub, and post-Holiday malaise, we neglected to do a traditional, dirty Limerick for the first Saturday of 2010...hence, today's.

Gotta get ourselves off on the right foot...or whatever appendage is appropriate...

With Elvis long ago dubbed, "The King of Rock and Roll"...and Michael Jackson earning "The King of Pop"... It would seem there's not a lot of room left for musical "Kings."

But we recently stumbled across an ad dubbing R. Kelly the "King of R&B."

Pompous nutsuck.

Anyway, we think that... Naw. Seems immature, even for us.

Then again... Okay--

Seems more appropriate to dub him the "King of R&Pee"...



Nash'nal football 'nouncers? I marv-

el at how my teams' names they carve!

Paid well, I suspect--

so say names correct!

And... Why don't they just BLOW Brett Favre?



Watched a National Hockey League game the other night, as has become my near-obsession, with my Chicago Blackhawks playing the St. Louis Blues.

The game was filled with fights.

Earlier in the day, I'd read about a National Basketball Association game in which two players, on the same team, pulled guns on one another.

I could provide links and/or more details, but I have a point, here.

Hockey is perceived as a thug sport.

But unless memory fails me, I don't recall any pro hockey players in trouble for guns and such.

Yes, they fight on the ice. But when the Blues' Keith Tkachuk took a puck to the face--for a REAL injury, as opposed to the tussling of fisticuffs--the Blackhawks' Colin Fraser, highly active in the earlier fighting, was the first to rush and alert the referees to stop the action, get medical help, etc.

So maybe one day you'll go to a hospital--and a hockey game will break out...



Farouk--act of terror conspired!

But add to his crimes--he's a liar!

The evidence shouts,

"Guilty beyond doubt!"

for, clearly, his pants were on fire!



So it appears that a third person crashed that now infamous White House state party.

Why don't we just go ahead and list the freakin' White House on CouchSurfing.org?...



TODAY'S EDITION: Complaining at Restaurants

Rarely have I complained to a waitress about my food or service at a restaurant. But I have.

Oh, I've received less-than-piping-hot dinners. Sandwiches on less-than-fresh bread. Food that just tasted crappy. Half-assed and even crabby service. All of that. And I've never, of my own account anyway, skimped on a tip (although I've tipped more or less, according to service).

I HAVE complained, but I can easily count those instances with the fingers of one hand and, when I have, it's been because I received the WRONG order, or been subject to some obvious, quantifiable mistake.

Some might call me wishy-washy over this situation. And perhaps they have a point. There's much to be said for the common argument that, "You pay good money for a meal and should thoroughly enjoy it, as well as the service, when you do." So sometimes I feel like perhaps I SHOULD complain more.

Yet I cringe whenever I'm in the company of someone complaining at a restaurant. Perhaps because the calls are often subjective--"This ham is 'old'"; "This dish isn't 'spicy.'"

I'm not quick to bash restaurant complainers, though. In part because, yes, perhaps I am a bit wishy-washy on this level--and I realize it--but also because my paternal grandfather, whom we referred to as "Pappy," had a reputation as a big restaurant complainer. I have only fond memories of Pappy, although I remember almost nothing of the actual complaining details.

I dated a chick for a few months who was what I'd call a "problem complainer." Sheesh, she made me borderline proud to be a bit wishy-washy. Oh, she was an etiquette nightmare on many levels, so I can't say the restaurant complaining itself drove me to end the relationship but... Well, perhaps the personality profile necessary for such a role doomed our pairing, in any event.

For purposes of preserving anonymity, we'll call her, "Vietnamese Chick." (Or "VC"...which is reminiscent of Viet Cong, I suppose but...kinda appropriate.) VC would almost ALWAYS complain at restaurants. At first, I let it slide. She grew up dirt poor and I reasoned that, to her, paying for a meal thus brought higher expectations.

I stopped letting it slide after... Well, take the time we went to a Vietnamese restaurant. This gave VC a foundation of bitching fuel--"I make this dish myself and can tell you..." Also, she indulged her habit of complaining FOR ME! I ordered a dish, VC asked me if it was spicy enough, I made the mistake of indicating that it wasn't as spicy as I'd wished and... Wham-o! Despite my insistence that it was still very good and that I DIDN'T want it returned for a new meal... Ugh.

The thing about restaurant complaining, as with most everything else in society, is that it lacks balance. The majority are like myself, admittedly too wishy-washy to complain, despite the fact that customers more than have the right. But the restaurant complainers are usually too quick to complain over the littlest of things--and also complain less than tactfully, often ripping into someone (the waitress, for instance) who wasn't directly responsible for the taste, etc. of the meal to begin with.

Wish there were a happy medium. But, again, as with everything, guess I have to settle for an unhappy extremism...



Peeps now claim R. Kelly to be,

in ads, the "King of R&B."

But from what we've learned

the more proper term

for him is, "King of R&Pee"!



So now we're supposed to get all weepy about the death of Casey Johnson--a "celebrity" who, naturally, wouldn't have given us the time of day had we encountered her and who... Well, another of those whom we didn't even know WAS a celebrity until reading of her death.

Apparently, Johnson claimed that turning down an invite from Paris Hilton to join her "show," "The Simple Life," was the "biggest mistake of [her] life".

Oh, how we shudder to imagine what she might've viewed as the smartest move of her life...



The King's birthday--get your hips shakin'!

And tribute sandwich, can be makin'--

to Denver, he'd jet

for full bread loaf set

with 'nut butter--and pound of bacon!



Happy Extra Cheezy Elvis' Birthday!

And with the long, holiday-less stretch ahead of us, after The Biggie, we'll take the excuse to vacation today, at least from this section...




Joy Missile is a Chicago-based band that...um...well... Ahem.

You'll have to excuse me. I pegged Joy Missile as a subject of this feature, and scratched down relevant "notes," before, or perhaps during, the Christmas Season, through which I slacked on the Special Features and... Well, I don't remember much of the details as to WHY I pegged them. Of course, I didn't "peg" them but... Anyway.

This is not to say that Joy Missile doesn't rock, or that you shouldn't immediately seek them out online, perhaps following-up with a live show or with a music purchase. It just means that... Well, not only are they subject to "press" from the Worst Music Critic on the Planet going in, but they had the calendar misfortune of happening into my radar during Prime Slacking Season.

So, here's what I have... They're cool guys... Their music is cool... They're DAMN cool guys... And I also scribbled, "Whoah, Dana!"

Hmmm... Oh. Their new-ish lead singer chick. She's smokin' hot. With an awesome voice, too.

So look at this as an interactive review. It's short on details--hell, it doesn't give you dick, truth told--but it outta spur you into exploring this Joy Missile musical entity...



Pathetic gay lush, midlife downslide,

barely left bed--but, somehow, found guy

online to toss salad.

Quite pleased stranger's palate--

was pickled from liver through brown eye!



According to a study, reported in the American Academy of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation, walking in high heels is easier on the body than jogging in running shoes.

And, ladies, there's also a great way to get, er, exercise in those heels...

Happy Extra Cheezy Saturday!... 



THIRD crasher, White House Smorgasbord!

And not, say, duke from Luxembourg!

Secur'ty won't gel

so they might as well

list it on CouchSurfing.org!



Scottish researcher Stuart Brody has unleashed the results of a study finding that... Sex is good and healthy for you.


Say, hasn't this fact already been reported eleven ways 'til Sunday? For a century or longer?

Pray, tell us, Stuart, exactly what's entailed in these tough study work hours? Watching people do the nasty? Talking to hot chicks (or guys, if that's your thing), getting gritty details of their sex lives?

Pervert "researchers"...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)

TODAY'S EDITION: The Chief Limericist is Engaged to be Married!

It's true. I'm engaged to marry M'Lady, Grace, and thus this may be the rare SST edition that lives up to the "touching" adjective.

Since we shoot for a policy of anonymity as it concerns non-public persons for this site, I'm not sure what I can add. Happened in the Holiday Taint--we had our "personal Christmas" in addition to the familial ones. I hid the ring in a much larger box, filled with balled-up newspaper. Only semi-gimmicky. We were seated, so I didn't do the typical take-a-knee.

I am not in a financial position to purchase a diamond at this point, but I did give her a diamond. And, of course, I love her very much, realize just how right for me she is after past mistakes and all and... Sap, sap, sap.

M'Lady and I almost moved-in together at the start of October. (Long story--and she ended up living next door.) When I was discussing the move-in with my parents (before it fell through), I indicated that we were on a path toward marriage.

See, on one hand, the Romantic Thing calls for a "surprise" proposal, but on the other, a couple SHOULD discuss such things, where they're headed, etc.--so one should have a decent estimate as to receiving a "Yes" answer. So I'd told Grace that I wanted to marry her, she indicated that she'd marry me, I mentioned my desire to have at least a semi-decent ring coupled with recent financial malaise for a proposal and... Men being men, women being women, she'd occasionally tweak the plan by mentioning things like... Oh, that she liked the topaz stone, for instance (should I purchase a non-diamond ring for the engaging).

Grace, however, was far from pushy about the whole thing. She's, of course, still a woman, but compared to others I've crossed romantic paths with... Well, I'm MARRYING her and shouldn't have to say more.

This all got my mom to thinkin'. Seems my maternal grandfather, whom we called, "Popo," went through a flashy period in his youth and had died leaving a ring, beset with two small diamonds, behind. (A ring my mother only recalled him wearing once.) My grandmother had the diamonds removed and placed into two pendants, which she gave to my mother and aunt.

My mother, of course, treasured the pendant, but it wasn't exactly her style, so she rarely wore it. Thus she offered it to me for the purpose of engagement to Grace, we had it placed in a ring setting and... A family, heirloom-y tie-in emerged, as my mother and I both realized that Popo would be pleased with the eventually role his diamond played in his grandson's life.

Before my mother's plan, I'd thought that I'd propose for her February birthday, as February is part of that long winter stretch, after Christmas and before spring, with little in the way of holidays and such. But the heretofore unknown diamond altered that path--and as I'd highly desired to do, this REALLY surprised the hell outta her, me furnishing a diamond engagement ring at that point in time.

Of course, lest this end on a note that's TOO touching... I was at a loss for SST fodder when I sat down to pen this, so getting engaged has extra, unforeseen benefits, too...







TODAY'S POEM: Apple butter


We had apple butter

on toast at her place

as the snow drifted in.


She and her mother

had made it, from apples

they'd picked off the trees.


She couldn't

recall the recipe,

but her mother has it,

if we need it.


[If you'd like to praise or berate the poet, e-mail him at mpchmielecki@gmail.com. He won't bite--although he may chew a bit.]



So Oh-Nine's "Male Athlete of Year"--

Jimmie Johnson! Thus, it appears...

"Athlete"? Need not be!

Next year... How 'bout me--

for Yule cookies, now that it's clear?!



A new book, "Twitterature," written by... No way.

We're NOT giving these clowns any more publicity, nor providing you a link, for Elvis' sake.

Basic premise? Twitter is not a great format for high literature. Thanks, guys. Glad you told us. Would've never figured that out... Ah, the creativity of you cats! It's not like it was done, decades ago, with "Cliff's Notes" and God knows what else.

Oh, and almost forgot--how funny. Ha ha. Hee hee...



Newspapers' death? No mere mirage

as auto fades from ad collage.

But turns still more dire--

stokes the fun'ral pyre--

sports sections lose ads for "massage"!



According to Steve Schmidt, of TV's "60 Minutes," soon after Sarah Palin met with John McCain--and was looking like a vp nominee to be--she was inordinately calm and described her upcoming nomination as, "God's plan."

We'd be interested to know how the knocked-up, unmarried daughter fits into "God's plan"...



Now many, with "good breath" as reason,

shun garlic, dating, as a seas'nin'.

I say, "Go 'head, eat it!"

I sure won't delete it

from my meals--it's just too darn pleasin'!




On a day carrying our special food section, my Mental Limerick Machine just happens to spit out a dining related entry.

It's the little, um, miracles in life that keep you going...

A Washington State blood center is offering those donating blood a pint-for-pint deal--beer for blood.

Which brings us to a tip for you Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers... Except they're making donors wait four hours whereas, well, right afterwards, you get the most bang for your buzz...



TODAY'S EDITION: Pan-Asian? Why Not Just...Pan-Everything?

A few years back, on my birthday, for a present to myself, I dined at a Chicago Korean restaurant. It was right around the corner from a bar/club where I frequently emceed music variety shows. One of those joints with photos of various menu items in the windows, one of which was "beef bim bop" (that name differs somewhat, perhaps thanks to translation, venue-to-venue). The dish featured spicy beef and vegetables with a fried egg on top and... Well, it looked good. And I always ended up longing for it when I'd leave the nightclub and stroll around a bit, to get some fresh air and/or a smoke.

The restaurant, however, wasn't open during the hours its neighboring club thrived, so I ended up hitting the place that birthday afternoon, the restaurant being within long-walking distance of my abode.

The name of this authentic Korean restaurant? Hamburger King.

I realize that most will pooh-pooh a Korean restaurant with such a name outright. Hell, ANY sort of "ethnic" restaurant with such a name. For whatever reason, the only examples I've witnessed have been Asian of some sort. I've noted Mexican and Chinese restaurants that throw burgers and such onto the menu, under the rubric of "American" food, but only Asians seem to use such an "American" name.

And, at least in my experience, only the Asian restaurants shoot for a full, real ethnic AND American menu at once. (That is, more than a token burger and grilled cheese, for example.)

I like the idea. Oh, I might advise the proprietor of Hamburger King to more reflect its tasty Korean dishes (boasting quite a few) in its name...but, then again, maybe they know what they're doing. I like the seeming philosophy--"I'll open a diner...and, what the hell, since I'm Korean and make a mean beef bim bop from my grandma's recipe, why not offer that and a few other Korean meals, too?"

I can't vouch for the American dishes at Hamburger King. I can't even vouch for its other Korean dishes. But I suspect they're just fine--and I suspect the same from similar, Asian-American menus. I haven't done a thorough survey, of course.

However, when I finished up my college degree, while in my mid-to-late twenties, I frequented a placed called Thai Express, which was across the street from the campus building where I spent most of my time (containing our college newspaper's office). Thai Express had burgers, hot dogs, ice cream...in addition to a full Thai menu. I particularly enjoyed the curries.

Every time I'd check in with others ("Anybody want anything from Thai Express?"), it seemed somebody would balk. "Thai from that place? They have burgers and stuff there!" But everyone who'd give it a try nonetheless would be happy with their Thai dish.

Since the Thai stuff was so deliciously delightful (and, I might add, delightfully delicious), the only reason I even tried a burger and fries there one day was to prove that Thai Express was valid as a Thai AND an American restaurant. And prove it, I did (at least to myself).

So go forth, ye Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers, and boldly try the beef bim bop (or whatever) at that joint you've had your eye on called... Hot Dog Heaven, or whatever...



So Ms. Palin, back fore she ran,

thought vp pick part of, "God's Plan."

Her fund'ment'list god?

Knocked-up daughter? Odd...

Guess some things, we can't understand!



So Jay Leno and Conan O'Brien... Aw, you either know (too much) or don't care.

We must say that while we SHOULDN'T with it on anybody...and while we SHOULD, in general, wish only good for, really, every human being... Well, we can't help but smirk, as print journalists, because--

TV and radio people? It's YOUR turn to watch your careers and entire freakin' industry bob up and down before descending down the toilet...



(Yawn...) "Twitterature's" a new book.

Posits how our classics would look

when written as twits

(not "tweets"--if shoe fits...)--

theme? Form lacks! Thanks--pure genius hook...



So Robert Zemeckis is remaking "Yellow Submarine."

With no Beatles, of course.

So... Oh, why do we even bother complaining about this crap from Hollywood anymore. Just have best-selling "author" Lauren Conrad rewrite "MacBeth" and get it over with...



TODAY'S EDITION: Identify the Cheerleader!

Watching football (American football, for any international readers), especially for the playoffs when my team (Da Bears) is no longer relevant, I cast a special eye to the cheerleaders.

Actually, that's a bit misleading. ANYTIME I watch football, I'm on the lookout for cheerleader shots. And those bastards don't show 'em enough! But I digress, although that's really the point of this site... I will say, however, that the cheerleaders are even more important in a Bears-less playoff season.

And let's have some information on those hard-working ladies. At the very least, names. They're out there, braving the elements, dealing with hard-to-please fans, all that--just like the players, coaches and referees.

And why not some stats, while we're at it? Stats like... Hmm.

In any event, just doing our part for equality...



Photographer, by name of Weaver,

covered football game--seeking beaver!

A cheerleader's kick...

Quick snap... Did the trick--

a fine shot of her "wide receiver"!



Actor Channing Tatum scalded his nuts on the set of... He heee! Ahem.

On the set of, "The Eagle of the Ninth."

Haw haw... Ahem.

Suppose there are all sorts of decent gags to be made with this one. And it's well within Daily Limerick's "news beat," of course, but... Heee heeee hoooo!... We can't stop laughing about it...

Happy Extra Cheezy Saturday!...



Actor Channing Tatum, the putz,

on set of flick, scalded his nuts!

Proves crew need med staffing

and... Just can't stop laughing--

hope it makes the "director's cut"!



In the wake of the Modern Idiot's John Wayne, Gilbert Arenas, pulling a gun in the Verizon Center, many teams in the National Basketball Association are now doing the common-sense thing and banning... Card-playing by players on planes?

Hmmm. Interesting, er, logic.

Did some of these team owners work with Dubya on foreign policy or something?...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)

TODAY'S EDITION: Jim Sulski--an Appreciation

Jim Sulski passed away early this month at 52. I didn't make any of the services. That's another topic altogether... Suffice it to say that, for one, I didn't know his family at all and, although I would've liked to have seen some old pals and cohorts (and could use the networking), I don't feel that the deceased care, wherever they may be, about such things, and my own life's events made it a touchy scheduling.

I was real close to Jim for a couple of years, 15 years back or so, and had the good fortune of checking in with him at points, for various events we'd both attended. Same old unfortunate, but very human, story--I said I'd come to see him at his work once I'd moved on, he said he'd make some of my performances... Didn't happen, but we did in fact "meet again," however briefly.

I'm guessing that most Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers haven't a clue as to who Jim Sulski is. Which is perhaps as it should be. He was a journalist of some note in the Chicago area, but his most important role was that of a teacher. He was the advisor for the Columbia [College Chicago] Chronicle, where I served as columnist, managing editor and, eventually, editor-in-chief during my mid-'90s stint at the school.

This is not the forum for an obituary proper, or even a more informal run-down of the man's life. (That can be found easily elsewhere.) But as a writer (or "writer"), and one whose life was moved by Jim, I feel an obligation to pay some form of tribute. And that means pointing out why he was close to the "perfect" teacher.

The spectrum of teaching philosophy has two polarities. On one end, teachers can be fully "hands-on"--constantly instructing, offering advice, etc. On the other, they can be completely "hands-off"--they'll assign the reading and homework and do little else. While I was a published writer by the time I finished my degree at Columbia, pushing 30, and appreciated mostly hands-off teachers (let me do my busy work and get the damn degree already)... I learned a great deal from Jim.

Jim COULD be hands-on, when a particular student or situation required it. And he could be hands-off, which was usually the case regarding myself and many of the other editors at the time, who were in similar situations to mine and a bit older, as students go. At Columbia, the newspaper publication was structured around a workshop class, with registered students constituting the staff writers, and the editors and advisor assigning stories, providing guidance, etc.

Thus in most cases, Jim let us editors run the workshop class, although he tutored the more "needy" student writers and proved invaluable when certain situations arose--when we busted college workers for drinking on the job, for instance, he made sure we covered all the legal bases.

In situations like this... Well, I feel I somehow should post a tribute here that's... Somehow more grand or something. Then again, I guess that's the nature of teaching--Jim proved invaluable to me and countless other students but, unfortunately, those who never met him will never see that, except indirectly, of course, through the works, journalistic or otherwise, of his students.

I'll close by mentioning that Jim worked another balance near perfectly--that of an authority figure/boss/teacher...and friend. He was only about 10 years older than I, so that could've proved a tough line to tread but... Well, he managed.

In fact, I'm not entirely sure whom I miss more--the teacher, or the guy who was right there, laughing along with the rest of us, to make the workload lighter as we rushed about on Friday nights to finish the weekly newspaper.

Farewell, Jim Sulski. And thanks...







TODAY'S POEM: Believe It Or Not...


...No, it's not to title of today's poem... There is no poem from Mr. Chmielecki today.

Rather than rib him for missing twice already in 2010, though, realize that his Cal Ripkin-esque streak without a break from this feature began in 2000 and went until... Well, January 3.

So put that in your pipe and... No, to continue the Cal Ripkin metaphor (or at least the baseball one), put that in your syringe and butt-inject it...


[If you'd like to praise or berate the poet, e-mail him at mpchmielecki@gmail.com. He won't bite--although he may chew a bit.]



Leno, Conan mess just belies...

'Net's murder, ad sales, underlies.

A journ'list in print

TV? Helpful hint--

prep! Career, and industry, dies.



Oprah Winfrey has launched a campaign urging drivers against texting while driving.

Well, that problem's solved. At least among her cult-like, stay-at-home mom following, anyway...

Happy Extra Cheezy King Day!...



So Oprah saw fit to exult,

to teens as well as full adults--

no texting while driving!

So that's solved--no jiving

(at least among her housewife cult).



Whooah! We completely blew off King Day for yesterday's edition. Not that we always have to have a holiday-oriented Limerick, but... We feel bad. Oh, we did wish Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers a "Happy King Day" but... Well.

So, to honor the great Martin Luther King, Jr... We'll make it up today... With a blow-off edition...

Happy... Er, Happy Extra Cheezy Day After King Day!...



To all of the candidates who

for 'lection campaigns see fit to

launch phone calls remote--

they work! I'll sure vote...

for anyone running 'gainst you!



While trying to arrest a suburban man gone wild in the City of Chicago on a rampage of battery and whatnot, the suspect bit off the officer's nipple.

Oddly enough, the officer in question is a man. Nonetheless, on that, we won't pass judgment.

However... Well, some do indeed live by the philosophy that "more than a mouthful's a waste," but this is ridiculous...



TODAY'S EDITION: The Pros and Cons of "Granny Carts"

I now have access to a grocery cart. You know, one of those grocery-carrying, wheeled things that urbanites like myself use to carry groceries home?

A friend of mine spied it in my place--it's actually M'Lady's, which is as good as being mine--and used the term "granny cart" to describe it, which... Okay. Grannies love the things. But so do I.

At this point, there's more to my use of the cart than simply carrying groceries, as... Okay. Five, six years back or so, I bought one of the things and was all stoked to use it. I eventually realized that a) I didn't usually buy enough groceries to necessitate the cart; b) during inclement weather, and most of the Midwestern winter, you can't use the thing; and... Well, anyway, my fever for the cart dwindled, which was just as well, as one day I overloaded the damn thing, it lost a wheel and... I forgot about using a grocery cart for a while.

Since M'Lady, whom I've been dating about a year now, offered the use of her cart, I've been using it, though. Yeah, it's great in nice weather to get in a good walk, as my grocery store is within "walking distance," but arguably "long walking distance" (dependent on weather, mood, level of hurry, etc.). But I get a special charge out of using it now thanks to the Chicago Transit Authority.

Bus fare has been significantly hiked in the last couple of years. In order to "get back" at the rat bastards, some borderline trips (walk vs. bus), ala the one to and fro my grocery store, become certified walking trips to avoid giving those greedy, nepotistic, budget-retarded folks at the CTA any money that I don't have to give them.

So I'm back to the grocery cart now. Sometimes, even in inclement weather.

Political bureaucracies have a way of bringing out the granny in all of us...



Though its boring nature did grate me

sport of golf had grown rather stately.

That Tiger Woods cat

had made it "all that"...

Strange, don't hear too much 'bout golf lately...




We totally missed Edgar Allan Poe's Birthday on Tuesday. January 19.

And like Beethoven's Birthday is to the Peanuts' Schroeder, well... Whoops.

So in honor of Mr. Poe, we're otherwise blowing off today.

Somethin' about this damn January. It's always a rough month to get goin' for, but, geez...



In Washington State, to quell fears

of giving blood they're off'ring...beer!

One must wait four hours.

That's where the deal sours--

'cause with low blood, buzz hits high gear!



So on the heels of Democrats losing former Sen. Ted Kennedy's seat in Congress, there's a scramble afoot to pass a scaled-back version of the health care "reform" bill.

So they're gonna FURTHER water-down that piece of crap? How? A "Cash for Clunkers" for rectal thermometers?...




Seafarer has a busy guitar sound that I dare call, "Rush-like."

There. I dared.

According to my craptastic notes, they sometimes sound "U2-ish," too, but in a good way. (I'm a little annoyed by U2 at times, especially Bono.)

I'll remind you all that I'm the Worst Music Critic on the Planet, so perhaps it's best to just hit the link to hear how they sound. But I recommend them.

But I'll also add that not only are the dudes in Seafarer really cool, and hockey fans to boot, but they have an attitude that, "Who cares how big the crowd is? We're puttin' on a show."

And that rocks.

Whaddaya imagine Bono would do when faced with, say, only about a dozen fans at a concert?...



Though strength's near ripe for Book of Guinness

Popeye gets more bursts from that spinach.

After pumps and hums

once Olive Oyl cums...

Why, she's nearly drowned in his finish!



Has anybody noticed else noticed that, while she's commonly regarded as smokin' hot, and mostly rightfully so... Penelope Cruz has... Well, a big nose.

A honkin' schnoz. Big ol' beak. Why, if I were a Vaudeville comic (Chief Limericist checked-in, here), I might venture to ask whether it is indeed her nose or whether she's constantly eating a banana.

Veritably Muppet-esque, that proboscis. For Christmas, I bet her Spanish-speaking pals say, "Nariz Navidad." (That's an in-joke, for those who know some Spanish. And a bad one, so don't bother to look into it further.)

Of course, she has other features that... Ahem. Let's just say that while we're taking a firm stand on the, um, issues of the day and declaring her large sniffered, we wouldn't discourage her from nosin' around the ol', you know, the, er...

Happy Extra Cheezy Saturday!...



Since they suffered New England slaughter

some Democrats feel now they oughter

pass bill, in quick round--

health-care, watered-down...

But crap bill's ALREADY pure water!



Sweethearts, the Valentine's Day fave candy with the little messages, has announced the results of an online vote and the new sweet nothing will be... "Tweet Me."


So... Hmm.

I guess this means that... Hmm.

We're at a loss for words. Which, ironically, makes Twitter the ideal forum to express our thoughts on the matter...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)

TODAY'S EDITION: A Teensy Weensy Smack at "The Man"

Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers may know that, while I'm making some income from freelance and such, and thus shouldn't complain TOO much, knowing that others have it much, much worse... Well, let's just say that I sometimes think I'll be searching for a job/decent gigs for the rest of my life.

As many SYGs undoubtedly know, with a zillion applicants for every lousy job out there... It's frustrating. So it really irked me when I received a response after applying for a grant writing job (inordinately boring work I might not apply for were our economy not toilet-swimming) and... Well, here's the ass master's initial sentence, referring to my resume perhaps showing inordinate time without a "regular" job:

"Real gaps here but let's talk."

I kept the message in my in-box to deal with the next day--it having come in as I was getting ready to log-off and relax for the evening. But the more I thought about it... Well, in this frustrating job market, I've taken to pessimism at times, something that is normally averse to my personality.

Thus, feeling I needed a bit of a recharge, the more I thought about it... Well, I decided to send a snarky reply indicating my new non-interest in the position.

I'd reprint the response here but... It wasn't the greatest, honestly. It fulfilled it's purpose--I made some crack about "real gaps" in etiquette by power-mad, would-be employers in today's economy--but... Well, I could justify the feel-good of turning-down a job I probably SHOULD go for, given overall factors, but I couldn't justify spending an inordinate amount of time on the snark.

So I'm imaging that my financial problems will be solved real soon now.

Or, if nothing else, I irked the rat bastard...







TODAY'S POEM: Who is the operator


I know your story without

knowing it. Pieces of it

rise up from the general murk

and get picked out by the

spotlight. Your ideas are

dancing around, causing

some in the crowd to mock you,

others to clap along, nodding

their heads in time. What they

believe is the real you.


My question is,

who's moving the spotlight?


[If you'd like to praise or berate the poet, e-mail him at mpchmielecki@gmail.com. He won't bite--although he may chew a bit.]



New message for Valentine's Day

on Sweethearts makes sense...in a way.

The voters picked, "Tweet"

Me"; "nothings" are "sweet"--

Twit's great form, for nothing to say!



This just in... As Daily Limerick suggested to Hollywood types, bloggers are now becoming TV and movie characters.

However, from what we can tell, they are, so far, not living in cardboard boxes and/or their mother's basements.

We'll leave the realism/Hollywood issue for another time--and take comfort with a baby step in the general direction, as virtual nobody is making money at newspapers or magazines anymore...



Though I'll cop--she's hot. (Manna, manna!)

Exotic? Not from Indiana!

Penelope Cruz

stokes my Vaudeville muse--

her nose? Or's she eating banana!



Read an interesting "talent" gig ad on Craig's List the other day, as I'm wont to comb those dillies.

Oh. Chief Limericist checking-in, here.

Anyway the ad was seeking...a host for a Web series, or some such, and they wanted a real "Dean Martin type." Able to sing a little bit, both indulge and stoke the party atmosphere, etc.

Oh, and this is important, else they wouldn't have pointed it out--he must also be a non-smoker.

Now, given the fact that anyone who hasn't just ended a long prison stint would know they couldn't smoke on a set... Well, we'll ignore the rampant Big Mother Movement angle and simply point out that--

Were he to return from the grave in his prime, you Zig-Heilin' bastards would turn down Dean Martin for your "Dean Martin type"?...



No public place smoking? Old news.

But apartment lobbies did lose!

Once popular hang-outs

where social buzz rang out--

and now the things ain't even used!



So Brett Favre says it's "highly unlikely" he'll return to professional football and... Shut up.

From the boy who cried, "retired/unretired," we'll consider the question answered at the last possible second one can join the roster--timed, of course, with maximum efficiency in screwing-up the rest of the Vikings'...

Heard some broadcast babble the other day about how the New Orleans Saints are now "America's Team."

Those types like to appoint that title, especially as it concerns football.

And, of course, they're almost always completely, utterly full of shit.

Here's a clue for you blithering chowderheads--

"America's Team" is only relevant in the Olympics and other international events.

If you take a closer look...hell, even the most cursory of looks, you'll see that rather than a "Team America," the National Football League has teams in many different cities across the United States...



TODAY'S EDITION: Every Pot of Chili is Like a Snowflake

Once the seasonal chill sets in around October, and until it gives way to warmth in March or so... Hell, let's call it April or even May, being a Chicagoan... Anyway, I'm sure to make at least one huge pot of chili for fall-winter. (I tend to make it with three or four pounds of meat at a time, thus can reheat and, eventually, freeze it for later, once I'm temporarily sick of it.)

When I initially started the chili routine, I'd use a chili-making kit, of which there are numerous tasty varieties. But I took note of the ingredients in each, toward the end of eventually cooking my own chili from scratch.

If you were to ask me for my chili recipe, I'd have to answer... Well, I could name ingredients but would have a difficult time telling you how much to add of each. Some call that "cooking to taste," and I take pride in the lack of "recipe" because it's a sign that I'm on the right track as a cook. See, my maternal grandmother, aka "Nanny," whom I've referred to often in this column as my "chefing ideal of sorts"--mother died young, leaving Nanny to cook for nine brothers and sisters--had trouble giving any sort of standard "recipe" for her culinary delights.

Thus for me, every pot of chili is like a snowflake. It's never the same twice.

Which is not entirely good. I'm a HUGE lover of extra spicy, and I always attempt to make a pot that's much milder than I like, even if it means I have to add hot sauce to my helpings, so that others with milder tongues can partake. I also factor into the equation that my chili is best served over macaroni and with cheeze, which assuages the heat a little but... I often miss my intended mark anyway.

But if it's too hot for you one time around, try again because, again... Not sure if "snowflake" is the best chili analogy, but you know where I'm comin' from, so stuff that hot pepper in your mouth and smoke it out your ears...



So now, it's the Saints, New Orleans,

who're dubbed as "America's Team."

That team? 'Lympic Games!

This trend's so damn lame--

'cross country, regions have teams deemed!



Read a "Ziggy" comic strip the other day (Chief Limericist checking-in, here)--can't help myself, if the strip is in the classifieds, I read it--and... Well, Ziggy is now apparently on Twitter.

I don't know about the strip or its writer/artist, but Ziggy himself is... Ahem.

Oh, I... I don't know what the hell to think anymore...



I've thought, "Should I do Twitter giggy?"

Dread it, but so many Twit jiggy...

It's argument for

and 'gainst--like when floored

in learning that now Twitting's... Ziggy?



Consumer Reports has published a list of tips for not getting sucked-in to purchasing products featured on infomercials. Such tips include waiting at least 10 minutes after the infomercial's end, in order to avoid pure impulse purchases from being swayed by... Hey.

We've got our own, much simpler "list" of tips, and it only includes one--

Don't watch infomercials! Now if everybody can handle that, maybe they'll go away and stop knocking my favorite old shows out of off-peak time slots, when I tend to watch TV...



TODAY'S EDITION: Stage Diving Mishaps Kick-Ass!

You know what I mean. And it's most humorous when an aging and or out-of-the-full-limelight "rocker" does it.

I first noted a stage-diving mishap when I read about Iggy Pop jumping into the crowd...only to hit the floor, breaking a hip or some such. (He hee.)

Then I read about Fred Durst doing the same (although he didn't break a hip or whatever). With either Durst or Iggy, the crowd reportedly didn't even make much effort to catch him.

The latest incident, to my knowledge anyway, involved David Yow of Jesus Lizard.

I looked around a bit on the 'Net and couldn't find a good vid of a failed stage dive. Perhaps you Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers can. Let me know if you do.

In any event... Somebody PLEASE get some footage of a failed stage dive. Our video music journalists are evidently failing us on this most exciting of rock trends...



A chick nailed young Lou with her strap-on.

(One that 'nother guy... Well, got crap on.)

Mixed bag, to be blunt--

Lou loved a good punt--

liked strap-on, but not so much Clap on!



Chief Limericist checking-in, here.

Just pondering whether the situation is more Charlie Brown or Kafka-esque...when my e-mail program keeps crashing trying to open an ANTI-VIRUS PURCHASE CONFIRMATION...

Happy Extra Cheezy Saturday!...



Consumer Reports published tips--

infomercials, 'void getting ripped.

A list, too, I've got--

just one, don't need lot...

Don't watch infomercials, ya' dips!



A 12-year-old boy and a 13-year-old girl face child porn charges for "sexting."

This is, of course, exactly what these types of laws are intended to do.

In fact, let's take this a step further and start charging the freakin' sheep in bestiality cases...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)

TODAY'S EDITION: The Knee-Jerk Bachelorhood Cling

I've been doin' the Knee-Jerk Bachelorhood Cling. And... Well, while my first thought in pondering it is, "Knock it off!" I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it. It just happens, hence the "Knee-Jerk" part of it.

I've covered this territory before, and I'm freakin' 41-years-old but... It happens. It's part of a guy's wiring, evidently. I'm sure it's part of a chick's wiring, too, but in a different way and... Well, I'm far from an expert on that.

When I was married my first time around, I fully adjusted. There were, obviously, a lot of problems with that first marriage, but my attitude toward marriage wasn't one of them. Hers was, in fact... But the point is that I was happy with the often less-than-exciting married lifestyle. Someone to come home to, talking about your day over dinner, aiming toward the goal of creating a family, which didn't happen the first time around, although you could call simple husband and wife a form of family, I suppose.

I'll even venture to say that comfort with the married life was one of the reasons I put blinders on. Let's just say that my first marriage was bad, or perhaps just went bad, and I probably should've admitted that and moved on earlier but... Then again, such things are hard to judge. It's not like the clock strikes 3:17 p.m. one day and a marriage all of a sudden goes from "good" to "bad."

But when my first marriage ended, I perhaps lamented the loss of the married lifestyle more than I lamented losing my ex. I felt floundering in life, as if my maturity level itself took a few leaps backward. (I was 32 when we tied the knot.)

Still here I am, almost a decade later, upon my engagement to a lovely lady who opens my eyes to what the "right person" really is (why did I even ATTEMPT that last one?)... And I'm clinging, at least in part, to my bachelorhood. I clung a little before that first try at marriage, but it wasn't like this. Perhaps because, as an oft introverted writerly type, I really longed for an end to loneliness after three decades of it mostly accompanying my life on that first time around.

Not that I don't long for that now, of course. I can't explain why there seems to be more of a Bachelorhood Cling this time--especially since it was that last foray that carried all the pre-marriage red flags that this one lacks. A part of me, psychologically, perhaps thought maybe I'd remain a bachelor. Maybe a post-divorce bitterness still resides somewhere inside. Maybe the five years of hard-core bachelorhood of the interim have brought an especially unflinching routine, since we're more prone to routines as we age.

I'm fine with the idea of not boinking other women. I've sown more than my share of those wild oats. And, other than the rock shows I emcee, I'm not on some crazy, late-night schedule. I'm not indulging regular over-intoxication.

M'Lady ended up moving nextdoor last October. Since I rent the spare room(s) in my condo to pay for it, we should've just moved in together but... Decided too late, once a lease was renewed here, and she's now in a lease until the next October. So we've taken baby steps. I'm now adjusted to the idea that she can stop over most any time, that we often synch dinner schedules--that kind of stuff.

But recently, M'Lady stayed here for a few days straight, only popping over to her place to get clothes, food, dog food, etc. (This is all further complicated by the fact that I have two cats who weren't used to dogs and she has two dogs who weren't used to cats. After a few "test runs," the dogs came along for her recent multi-day stay as well.) There was no discussion of the matter (which I guess I should get used to on some counts); it just started.

Somehow, I worked myself into a nervous bundle. As I ponder it now, there were only little things bothering me--or little things that I allowed to bother me. Of course, I puffed on my cigars--blowing smoke up the fireplace flu--less frequently, which probably led to some of the ire, although one of the benefits I seek in the married lifestyle is being a bit more healthy. She'd use my computer and desk which, despite the fact that we "scheduled" this time--and she was very good about it--is, likewise, something that tends to irk me.

I'd go about my silly little routines and she'd be there. Constantly. I could probably name a few dozen more alterations to my routine that were made but... Again, they're all little. Tiny even.

This "trial living together" period only lasted a few days before she decided that she needed a whole desk for an extended period, compounded with other little annoyances of always running nextdoor and the fact that it was my cat Chester's birthday (and he's the one who's having the most difficulty integrating with the dogs, although he's well on his way)... And I started thinking about the reasons WHY I'd been so out of sorts.

Like Chester, I was much better integrated to the faux married lifestyle at the end of the exercise. And I realize that this married thing is what I really want, that I just got stuck in a bachelor rut, that I'm still perhaps somewhat stuck in that--and that it's also compounded by the third person, the renter/roommate, in countless ways... That's a whole 'nother story. And what a story it'll be, when he's gone and it can get the Sunday Story Time treatment.

As soon as she DID leave--back to her apartment next door, I mean--I missed her. And the dogs. Oh, a bachelor part of me sighed a bit in relief, but I missed her more.

So let this serve as warning to bachelor Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers. When the time comes for you, no matter how ready you feel for the married and/or living together thing... The Knee-Jerk Bachelorhood Cling will nonetheless manifest itself, one way or another.

As with any other evolutions in life, just roll with it when it does. In the long-term, things'll be much better. Unless you're just one of those types who aren't meant to be married, in which case you should admit that to yourself as soon as is possible, lest you end up setting another person back with a lousy marriage ala my ex...






TODAY'S POEM: Frailty of thought


Man, you're wrong.

You're so, so wrong.

I've never heard such

a feeble argument before.


You lightly touch on logic

like you found a shattered key

that barely fits, will never

unlock another door.


You survey your thoughts

but they have gone completely wild,

saying you love this wicker chair

then hurling it to the floor.


And what's more, I'm afraid you're going

to find the failings in my perceptions,

the ones I thought were inviolable.

You'll see one loose thread

and pull the whole thing apart.

I know you enough to know that.

So I won't argue, I will give your wild,

malformed ideas free reign.

You've gone crazy, drop by drop.

But I will say nothing. I will admire you

from the distance we've created, unperturbed,

so my own arguments can remain ironclad, secure.


[If you'd like to praise or berate the poet, e-mail him at mpchmielecki@gmail.com. He won't bite--although he may chew a bit.]

Send your own Letter to the Idiot and/or e-mail Sloop! (And attach sexy pics, if you insist. Sigh.)


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