We Be Steady Mobbin

As the Blackhawks inch closer and closer to bringing a championship back to Chicago I simply cannot help myself from getting a little excited. Sure I'm really pumped about the fact that the Hawks are playing for the Stanley Cup, but there's a whole other branch of excitement that's stemming from this playoff run. I have already played witness to 6 Bulls NBA championship seasons, and I was in attendance for 2 games of the 2000 Subway Series between the Yankees and the Mets, both incredible experiences for a young sports fan. However I was only a mere child back then, and we know what the best part about being a completely irresponsible young adult when your team brings home the ship; not bragging rights for your hood, not a commemorative ticker-tape parade downtown, not even being able to call yourselves "defending champs" for the whole next season. No, that shit's for the birds my friends, I'm talking about the ability to participate in a full scale riot.

That's what being the fan of a championship allows you to do. You and your fellow fans join together in a display of solidarity and are rewarded for your commitment by chugging beers amongst the masses, tipping over cars, breaking shit, and lighting inanimate objects ablaze. The team and city get a trophy, and you get to run wild through the streets in an whiskey induced hysteria, who could ask for more.

As fucking awesome as it is going to be to run uncontrollably through the city like a crazed banshee without so much as a stern look from fellow rioters, a mob mentality is a double-edged sword or sorts and can certainly have its downsides, often referred to as herd behavior

Herd behavior describes how individuals in a group can act together without planned direction. The term pertains to the behavior of animals in herds, flocks, and schools, and to human conduct during activities such as stock market bubbles and crashes, street demonstrations, sporting events, religious gatherings, episodes of mob violence and even everyday decision making, judgment and opinion forming.

Thanks Wikipedia, I couldn't have said it better myself! Like I said, a mob mentality can definitely have its downsides, but I've never been one to care too much about the victimization of others, except of course when I am the victim in question. So here's an instance where mob mentality is at its worst.

You've already heard me list my transgressions about the mutants of public transportation, but this took instance blew the doors off that mother fucker

A few weeks ago I boarded a northbound redline train on my way to work, and where I get on just happens to be one stop south of an inner city high school and a Chicago City community college. Needless to say, there are more freaks and hoodlums than you can shake a stick at. So as I walk casually into the train car I see a group of about 10 girls throwing a beating into some innocent looking old white woman. I say she was innocent because she was like I said, was an old white woman, effectively making her more unassuming and harmless than a baby dolphin. Apparently the old woman had asked them to please stop yelling while they were on the train, because after all it was 7:30 am, which I guess is grounds for an all out gang beating at the hands of a group of 16 year old girls while their male friends watched and cheered. Did I come to her aide? No sir I did not, because I watch the news and I'm not dummy. People who intervene get their asses beat and their iphones stolen, two things I wanted no part of. Sorry Gertrude (or whatever her old lady name was). Before you start judging me for not throwing myself into a wild pack of angry half-breeds to save some old bag of bones, I will have you know that it seemed like some other stupid schmuck Good Samaritan had it under control because he was getting punched repeatedly in the stomach holding a few girls back while yelling something equally retarded like "Game Over! Game Over! Game Over!" Since apparently the game was over I didn't feel too bad about finding a secluded, gang beating-free seat at the opposite end of the train car. Phew! Really dodged a bullet there.

Not even three days later the same fucking group of jagaloons are on my train car. Understanding a little bit of herd behavior I know that often times people will do things when they're in large groups that they normally wouldn't do on their own (like beating the shit out of that lady from Golden Girls while riding the train), I know to keep a safe distance in order to not send the herd into a craze. Regardless of my efforts to stay away, they make their way over to me as the train pulls into their stop. What happened next was something that I think will leave me confused and angry for the rest of my life. The fat leading female of the group/geezer basher extraordinaire comes up to me with all her minions behind her and proceeds to say "Hello nice white man" while she begins to stroke my chest and stomach with her hand, and then say "You feel like a kitty". What? "Bitchyu betta check yo-self and keep your public school, Section 8 hands off my cashmere sweater before shit gets real"...is what I was thinking in my head. What I actually said was more along the lines of "Stop touching me please", so as to not be a catalyst for another instance of public transportation ass-stompings textbook herd behavior. It truly could have been mob mentality at its worst, people coming together as a group in order to act without any rationale with me as the cashmere clad victim.

But don't fret little bitches, the rest of this post will serve as my testament to how awesome taking part in mob mentality can be. Here is SBB's ode to Mark Swantek and the social phenomenon of herd behavior, and just remember kids, sometimes people do things in groups that they would never do alone...

"Let's see if we can turn this pig roasting spit into a bonfire"

 "Looks fun, let's all join in!"

Monkey See, Monkey Do

"WE NEED to pile some more shit on this thing"

Burn Baby Burn

Fuck that shit, cuz I ain't the one
For a punk muthafucka with a badge and a gun

As promised, I leave you with another music video with a gratuitous amount of 80's


Keep it sleazy,
SBB

I'll Give You Asthma

Its that time of year again folks, the 8 month Chicago winter season seems to be coming to a close. What does that mean for us guys? It's time to get our Tiger Woods on, and by that I mean sprinkling in a few rounds of golf in between banging obnoxious amounts of cocktail waitresses. Eh, who am I kidding? You're more likely to see me and my friends pinching said cocktail waitresses on the be-hind and making pelvic thrusts while we grunt like a potbelly pigs. What can I say, I'm such a doll.

So its golf season, and the more we break out the clubs, the more you will be forced to bear witness to possibly one of the most annoying things that people don't realize they are doing. Trust me, once you notice it for the first time golfing will forever be different. Its an unstoppable force during what should be a carefree and relaxing 18 holes; the egregious an unnecessary amount of Caddyshack references.

"Its in the hole! Its in the hole! Its in the hole!" Really? I don't think it is, considering you were yelling while I was trying to concentrate here, thanks though. We get it, you've seen the movie, now can you do me a solid here and shut the fuck up for a minute. The problem is most people don't even realize that they're doing it, which directly relates to them not understanding how fucking annoying it gets after a whole afternoon. Its like word vomit, something about the setting just makes it come out and by then its far too late. Now, don't get me wrong, I love Caddyshack, in fact its one of my favorite movies of all time, I simply do not need to hear it quoted, misquoted and run into the ground every time I feel like golfing.

You're standing on the tee box and all of a sudden you start to feel a little bit of rain. "I don't think the the heavy stuff's gonna come down for quite a while". Thanks Carl Spackler/Tom Skilling, we appreciate your very informative retort, you were a really great addition to the foursome. Let's be honest here, Caddyshack is funny because it featured a group of professional comics who made very successful careers out of saying funny shit, and you on the other hand are just a fat guy with basic cable and a set of golf clubs. Do you know how long it takes to play a whole round of golf? Pretty much all fucking day, and when an asshole friend is relentlessly imitating Bill Murray and Rodney Dangerfield you'll be bleeding from your ears by the 13th hole. The easiest way to address it would just be to have everyone in the foursome gather around the first tee box and spend five minutes getting them all out of our system. Say whatever you want now before we tee off, and if we have to hear you say "its in the hole!" or something about a fucking gopher while we're on the course I'm going to hit you in the back of your knee with a 5 iron.

Trust me, if you haven't noticed it yet I guarantee you will the next time you go golfing, because its not only a reality that won't be going away any time soon, but its sure to ruin your fucking day. Thankfully I have never spent a summer as a caddy, so I've got that going for me

Obligatory shout-out for inspiration to Michael Danielak

And in what I will be adding to my posts for the next few weeks, an obnoxious 80's music video. One of many to come...

SBB out

I'm so before my time

I feel as though I was a little harsh on ginger clown-face Kathy Griffin in my latest post so I'm going to make up for it by saying a few nice things about someone today, but not Kathy Griffin because she sucks baby turds. So I'm going to say something nice about myself. I'm a fucking genius, it was half a year ago that I was saying how Katy Perry is absolutely gorgeous and how her chest was sculpted with DaVinci-like artistry, in fact it was one of the first things I have ever posted about. Well yesterday Maxim magazine being the dense-skulled slow learners that they are finally decided to go ahead and agree with me by naming her #1 on their annual Hot 100. Obviously you know how I feel about her, but in a strange way I also feel like the fan of a sports team that just won a championship, except with less champagne soaked celebrations and a lot more masturbating. Poor taste? Probably, but oh well.

The Maxim Hot 100 is obviously judged on a superficial basis, doing there best to rank these woman based on a pretty unrealistic standard of female beauty that publications like theirs have not only created but continue to perpetuate. However, I though it was rather interesting that in their explanation of why they chose her for the #1 spot on the list;  

 "Katy Perry is the best friend you suddenly realize you’ve loved your whole life. The rad chick who taught you how to skateboard and whistle and also looks unbelievable in a bikini."  

That's pretty insightful coming from a magazine that junior high boys whack it to. A lot of masturbating talk today, sorry folks (not sorry). Either way I thought this was a decent message being sent to the multitude of females out there with personal body image issues. In a way they were saying that you don't need to be the cheerleader type with long blonde hair, because guys actually will find you attractive if you are individualistic and have spunk like Katy Perry; you are all beautiful in your own special way! I'm just joking, that's totally gay, I hope you didn't think I turned into a Sally there for a minute. Let's not kid ourselves here, I think they nailed it naming her #1 but let's acknowledge that its not because of her girl-next-door look, its because of her bountiful chest. Without her perfect sweater kittens she's probably not in the top 20, but lucky for her when the Lord gave, he kept on giving. What they really should have said in place of their candy-ass explanation, was that if you're not the drop-dead gorgeous blonde then you'd better have an incredible set of tits.

So here she is atop the Maxim Hot 100. Now don't forget Katy, with great breasts comes great responsibility

Keep it sleazy,
SBB

Hello Internet, Its me, Joe

I'm 23, I'm a big boy now. I have a big boy apartment (kinda), I wear big boy underpants (hardly ever), I read big boy books (while pooping) and I have big boy issues (mostly ingrown toenails), and one of those big boy issues is the fact that, like most other adults I have a job that can be a complete mental drain. The easiest way for me to keep my brain from slowly leaking out of my ears is to leave work for almost every second of my hour-long lunch break. As you can probably imagine, hanging out in downtown Evanston is a blast, and by that I mean it totally fucking sucks. I mostly hate it because nobody in town looks like me, and every putz with a Liberal Arts degree feels the need to harass me into signing a petition to support legislation that would combat the canine leukemia epidemic, or something as equally unimportant and stupid. You've already heard how, for the most part, diversity has a way of making me feel uncomfortable. So, in order to keep myself from having a panic attack every time I want to get out of my office I go to the one place where I know the crowd will be homogeneous and I won't be pressured into listening to someone guilt trip me for not caring about the poor quality of drinking water in South America; Barnes and Noble.

Over the last few months I have perused just about every inch of the downtown bookstores. A few days ago I was looking at a few books while also searching for a quiet secluded area to fart in when I found myself in the biography section. We all should know what a biography is by now, and if someone doesn't they should probably go back to eating dirt and kicking dandelions before their babysitter realizes their on a computer unsupervised. Over the course of the last few years I have read more than a few biographies, and in doing so I have been entertained and I have also learned a lesson or two from the people whose lives have been profiled. However, when I was looking over the newly released biographies/finally letting go of a fart where nobody would hear it, I came to a realization; there are far too many biographies written about the ultimately undeserving. It used to be that biographies were written about highly influential individuals, who through their actions, intelligence, or ideas, have made some sort of historical or social impact. I can only assume that requirements have since changed in the last few years, because apparently anyone and everyone who thinks they have a story to tell deserves an entire book devoted to them. Clearly I disagree. I simply cannot picture a publishing executive sitting behind a large cherry wood desk, stroking his tiny chin while trying to decide if its a solid business decision to fund and distribute a book about the life and times of Bea Arthur, I just don't see it. Don't get me wrong, there are people who deserve to have their life's story told to the public, but it seems that anyone who have a semi-famous name these days already has a book deal lined up. If you don't believe me go and take a stroll around the biography section of your local bookstore and then try and tell me I'm wrong. Go ahead and make my day you little bitches.

Something that has always pissed me off  is the idea of someone writing a biography about their own life. Scientists call this an "autobiography", because the first one was written by Henry Ford, but don't quote me on that. Regardless, anyone who thinks that they are important enough to write an autobiography is, without an ounce of doubt, a self-absorbed asshole. To think that you personally, are so relevant that the world stands to gain something by reading your personal opinion of yourself means you're probably either crazy or a total prick. Besides trying to marry a charcoal sketch of your own face, is there something more narcissistic? Methinks not, but this is America and people here are entitled to their own opinions no matter how shitty. This isn't Iran and people aren't going to get their hands cut off for being self-important dipshits, but since this is America I choose to invoke my right to call them an asshole. 

Some pretty important people have written autobiographies in the past, people of societal importance like Benjamin Franklin, Fredrick Douglass, and Gandhi to name a few. But in just 30 seconds at the Evanston Barnes & Noble I found this literary form being bastardized by the likes of Dog the Bounty Hunter, has-been porn star Tera Patrick, and Todd Bridges a.k.a. Willis Jackson from Diff'rent Strokes. Seriously, what the fuck are you talking about Willis?

Like I said, I was stunned to see how many undeserving people had biographies written about them, and was even more stunned to see how many of them were actually autobiographies. It was one of these in particular that made me lose my shit and ultimately inspired this post. To preface my next point allow me to just say that there is nobody on Earth I hate more than Kathy Griffin, so naturally I was infuriated when I had to see her disgusting face draped across the cover of a book. Honestly, has the whole world gone mad? I must be in the fucking Twilight Zone because only in a wretched and warped universe would something like this be allowed to happen. Publishing the personal memoir of Kathy Clownface Griffin seems pretty similar to taking a time machine back to the 1400's and hitting Johannes Gutenberg in the dick with a baseball bat for inventing the printing press. There are people in this world who have lived a life worth telling, people who have made significant contributions to the world in which we live. Kathy Griffin simply does not fall into that category.

As stated earlier, I absolutely abhor her. Oddly enough her and I are from the same hometown, which is usually grounds for some completely unfounded attraction and support for her as a person, but not this bitch. How could I support her with a face like that? She looks like Ronald McDonald's unloved bastard son dressed in drag. She honest to God might be the Irish Rupaul. My sweet mother taught me better than to make fun of people for things they can't change, but I think any ounce of clemency towards her deserves to be suspended after her multiple plastic surgeries that just left her looking equally gross. Its a sad day when Hollywood's own plastic surgeons can't fix you. I absolutely love the fact that her own husband stole $72,000 from her and ran away forever, that just speaks volumes as to her face and overall state of being. My only assumption is that he turned on the lights one night and realized he had just been having sex with Carrot Top, and thus did the only thing that seemed fitting; he got the fuck out of there.

People as ugly as Kathy Griffin need to have some sort of real, discernible talent to exist in show business, and that's the part that I simply can't wrap my mind around. How does someone have a career  as a comedian when they are inherently unfunny? Outside of her chimp-like face, what's so funny about her? Nothing I've ever seen or heard. Her stand-up routine is about as funny as cancer, yet she has parlayed that into legitimate acting roles as well as her own reality show on Bravo (which is just a closeted gay version of the Lifetime network might I add). Like I said, I feel like I woke up in the fucking twilight zone. How did this happen? She's painfully unfunny and has a face like a mask from the Scream movies.

Oh wait, It must be my lucky day because all the answers I could possibly need are probably right there on the pages of her autobiography. All I need to do is read it. Therein lies the problem; I can't spend time reading what Kathy Griffin has to say about herself without hating everything about myself. Call me nuts, but I would rather have Ving Rhames strap me chest down on a dentist's chair and savagely plug my virgin ass with a sandpaper covered dildo than spend one second reading the personal memoir of Kathy Griffin. The only way someone could get me to read these pages would be to physically pry my eyelids open and force feed it to me. I imagine the situation being akin to Alex DeLarge's brainwashing in A Clockwork Orange. The terror would be unbearable, but the fact of the matter is, I could probably tell you what's in the book without ever reading it. Something along the lines of, "I wasn't one of the pretty girls and didn't have many friends in school so I was a loner and turned to self-depricating humor for acceptance, because as long as I was the one telling the jokes then the beautiful people weren't laughing at me, they were laughing with me", and more blah blah vomiting blah. Am I wrong? (No)

What's the message I'm trying to convey? You need not live a life of importance to fool people into thinking you are actually significant. Now, if the idea that people will want to read your own life story has ever crossed your mind then you are probably a self-absorbed ass and you aren't as nearly as in-touch with the world as you think you are. That's what I have realized and since here on SBB my opinion is infallible you should embrace it. Think for a minute what exactly you are contributing to next time you think you might want to buy the "untold, completely true story of Axel Rose".  Secondarily, I want my faithful following to realize that Kathy Griffin is a giant bucket of gross and I want you to detest her as much as I do.

That's all folks, Suck it Kathy Griffin,
SBB out

Summer Movie Sequels

Here's something that I have held in a draft archive for almost two months, waiting for my previously mentioned art department intern Eileen to finish her job. Her job was to create some movie posters for me, a task she clearly didn't complete. She only finished one, and promptly took a leave of absence from her duties. Alas, I must forge on without her and my much anticipated movie posters...

(Originally dated 3/1/2010)

So last week I saw that a the wheels are in motion to film a sequel to Zoolander. I'm always a little bit apprehensive when thinking about seeing a sequel to a film, because more often than not its atrocious and a waste of my very precious time. Then I got to thinking; if all these sequels are going to inevitably huff balls, why not let me write them? I'm not guaranteeing a box-office smash, but at least it wouldn't make me feel like clawing my own eyes out. So I'm going to give you some movie sequels that I think would be considerably better if they were written and directed by yours truly. Summer blockbusters with a hint of SBB...

Pretty Woman 2: My Girlfriend Is a Hooker

Richard Gere reprises his role as successful businessman Edward Lewis in this sequel, that starts just after 2 weeks after the original (You might be asking yourself how I could fathom putting Richard Gere in the role of a 35 year old man set in 1990? Don't you fret; let's just say our producers are going to be keeping Just for Men: Touch of Gray in business for a long time). After realizing the he loves Vivian Ward he takes he on an extravagant and blissful trip to the Caribbean. Now they're back in the real world with real world obligations, when it suddenly hits Edward like a sledgehammer to the chest: My girlfriend sucks other men's penises for money.

Godfather 4: Mrs. Doubtfire

We all think Don Vito Corleone died towards the end of the original Godfather. Guess again bitches, because as it turns out it was all a ruse to get a truly objective view of how his son Michael would run the family business. In this seemingly final movie in the Godfather saga, we see how the strength of both a crime organization as well as a family are held together by their aging patriarch in a nanny costume. (Since Marlon Brando has been dead for 6 years Robin Williams has been approached to play Don Vito/Mrs. Doubtfire)

Friday Night Lights 2: 19 Year Old Dad

Picking up a year after losing in the Texas football state championship game, the teammates from Permian High School have begun to come to terms with the reality of being a poor kid from an economically lagging town in West Texas. Working midnight shifts at the highway gas station seems only temporary, that is until their girlfriends start getting knocked up. Wamp Wamp.

 Hotel Rwanda 2: Penthouse Pool Party! 

In the original  Hotel Rwanda viewers were shocked and taken aback by the Rwandan genocide, and many were left feeling uncomfortable and confused by the historically accurate scenes that unfolded in front of them. My fan-friendly, lighthearted sequel is in no way based in fact, but merely will serve as a speculative piece that displays what I assume happened immediately after the original film. The militant Hutu's and the surviving Tutsi's put aside their differences and decide to throw a rooftop bash in this homage to the beach themed films of the 1950's. Who knows the type of wackiness that will unfold in this sun-soaked, fruity drink packed extravaganza...

Putting asses in the seats since '09

SBB

Tokens and New Best Friends

For all of you beautiful little bitches who have had the privilege of meeting me in person have probably made the very keen observation that, for the most part I only surround myself with people who look, think, and act exactly like myself. This isn't necessarily something that I actively tried to do, but its also not something you hear me making a fuss about either. Let's be honest, I just don't have the time to approach the world through the scope of anything but a collection of stereotypes, and considering the fact that stereotypes are usually spot-on, I feel like my attitude is not only a time saver but a real price performer to boot. Regardless, how did I arrive here? I would imagine that it has something to do with the fact that I grew up in River Forest, or that I attended private Catholic schools for almost 20 years, which essentially has made it so that my closest peers will always be an unvarying group of white kids. I'm not a hate mongering hermit, all I'm sayin' is that diversity is kinda gay. Don't blame me, blame my parents, blame the khakis; shit, blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-a-alcohol for all I care, its just the world I exist in.
 
Now I'm not saying that I don't have non-white friends, in fact that couldn't be further from the truth. I have like 2.3 black friends as well as an Indian friend, so suck me sideways. And if we're going to keep up the stereotyping trend we might as well label them as the tokens. If you don't know what a token is you're probably either Amish or you've spent the last 12 years living in a fucking cave, either way I'm not sure how you came across my blog, but I'm glad you're here. Don't ask me where the term token came from. Do I look like Mr. Webster to you? Google that shit for yourself. My best guess is that the name has something to do with skee-ball or arcade games, but that's just a shot in the dark. Either way, since we don't have any etymology for the term token, I'll just give you Hollywood's definition. Behold, scenes from the Oscar nominated film Not Another Teen Movie...


And...

As you can probably tell, the recipe of my life only calls for one ethnic friend at a time. You may be asking yourself, "How can you justify only having one non-white friend at a time?''. The simple answer is that places like the Taste of Chicago and the NBA All-Star Game tend to make me uncomfortable, but in order to appear tolerant I will give you the cut and dry non-xenophobic answer; token friends are inherently solo in nature, and to bring another one into the mix would be doing them the injustice of stripping them of their title. In reality, being my token friend is a big responsibility because they need to be my one stop shop for all things that I have generalized about their culture, and by that I mean basketball, rap, and potential subliminal messages in Cosby Show re-runs. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

This had me thinking, could I ever be a token? I know for a fact I can fulfill a stereotype, after all, when I'm getting dressed in the morning I try and ask myself what outfit would make people think I fell out of a Kennedy family Christmas Card. I have no problem being a walking billboard for white people because deep down I know that khaki's look great on me and that Hall & Oates are a fucking dynamite duo, but being a token means more than being just a white poster boy. The real question is...to whom can I be the token? And it just so happens that I think about this opportunity all the time. By now it should be pretty evident that even though I'm a textbook definition of a white person, my life would be exponentially better in my opinion, if I could just hang out with R. Kelly. Allow me to explain...

Even though I grew up in Polos and saddle shoes, at a very early age I developed an affinity for everything Hip Hop related. I believe can be directly attributed to the jockeys over at 107.5 WGCI and the amount of R. Kelly they were playing during my formative years. Regardless, R. Kelly has fascinated me from the first time I heard "Bump & Grind". I appreciate him for his musical talents, but I adore him for his relentless quest to find a middle ground between the harmonious and the down right stupid. Dos Equis can have "The Most Interesting Man in the World", because SBB has R. Kelly, "The Most Ridiculous Man in the World".

"I don't always have sex with 17 year old girls, but when I do, I take a whiz in their fuckin' hair"

If I'm going to be anyone's token white guy, I'm going to be R. Kelly's resident cracker. I just know that every waking day would hold the promise of something spectacular yet undeniably stupid. He could be looking me straight in the eyes and sing about how he's going to make mouth babies with my sweet old Grandma, and as long as he has a microphone in his hands the only thing I'll be able to say is "Damn R. Kelly can sing". That's why I think me and Mr. Kelly would get along like 2 peas in a pod; I wouldn't just judge him for his faults, but just do my best to bring out every ounce of his diamond encrusted and incredibly melodic inner retard. Something tells me that as his token white guy I would be able to regularly bear witness to spectacles of ridiculous proportions. To think what it must be like to show up at a club with R. Kelly; I can only imagine that its pretty similar to being one of the golden ticket holders and walking in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, but Mr. Wonka is wearing an enormous white mink coat and telling his harem of girls to suck his hairy gumdrops.

I may just start out as the token white guy to him, but I honestly see a wonderful friendship blossoming from our ordeal. At first I may just be answering questions from him and his friends such as "Yo how you work this mutha fuckin' internet?", or "Ay Joe, what the fuck is tennis?". After a few months of being his white people encyclopedia I will have built enough rapport with to go out and clown at clubs with him and essentially become part of his inner circle. I wouldn't just be there to answer questions about the Anglo-American people, but I believe they would probably parade me around town and make me do white guy things, like dance funny amongst black people (2:18 into the video) or eat panini's. I will retain most of my white guy moxie, but Kells will look at me as I'm pouring champagne all over some woman's tits and he'll say "Damn Joe, we're like brothers from a different mother, like Mel Gibson and Danny Glover". Then I'd turn to him and say "Ni@@a Please!". He'd hesitate for just a second then burst out into laughter, and understand that we can do things like that with each other now that I'm not just his token, but his best friend.

C'mon and braid my hair,
SBB

Shoutouts, Census, and Hobo tour 2K10

I'm sorry that I've been a little lackluster when it comes to the frequency of my posting  in the last few weeks. I know how all you wonderful followers love for me to blast money-shots of intellect into your noggins, but we're going to blame the lack of recent posting on my art department intern whom I will refer to as "Eileen". We're going to call her that, not in the respect of anonymity, but because that's her name and I want everyone to be mean to her. Oh well, on more important notes, I have returned and that's all that really matters.

Before I start I want to give a shoutout to a follower who I just became aware of in the last week, proving that not everyone in this world is a supreme doucher and that SBB has a extensive reach . BW, this one's for you, and don't for a minute think that I have forgotten that your girlfriend once named your penis Princess Sophia

I'm sure you have become aware of it by now, but the whole 2010 Census has really begun to chap my ass raw. "Have you filled out your Census form yet?", "10 questions takes just 10 minutes"; no I haven't filled out your census form, and the guilt trip isn't going to have me hurrying to finish it either. They might be wondering why I, like many others choose to ignore this simple civic duty and go about the rest of my day, and I can give you a number of reasons but I'll just stick to two. 1.) I'm an adult and I've got shit to do, and 2.) The needs and wants of others usually are not a concern of mine. So no, I will not be filling out the census.

What annoys me the most is the sheer relentlessness that the census bureau displays. I get a new reminder in the mail every single day, and having been through 4 years of college I already knew exactly what to do when someone gives you a random piece of paper, and that is to either instinctively do the Heisman on that dork handing out the flyers or accepting it and immediately throwing it in the first garbage can you can spot. Also, the constant barrage of television commercials with that fat, sweaty, just out of bed yet extremely active ubercitizen is starting to weird me out too. This guy is gallivanting around his neighborhood playing with kids and helping roll a woman in labor on a gurney and guiding her through her contractions; shouldn't there be a doctor or midwife there to step in and say "Excuse Mr. Man Tits but before you try and touch the baby can you please go take a fucking shower?". I know I'm supposed to fill out the census because its part of my duty as a citizen, and so government funds get appropriately distributed. After all we wouldn't want to leave anyone out, but that gets me thinking that there must be one group of people that do not get represented at all. That's right, I'm talking about the homeless...

Now don't get your panties in a bunch thinking I've gone all liberal on you, I assure you I have not. I'm just trying to make an astute observation about the homeless, and after 4 years at Marquette I'm pretty sure that along with my Bachelor's in Finance I should have received an honorary Doctorate in messing with the hobos.

The homeless community, or as "Malt Liquor Aficionados" as I like to refer to them, are a strange group, something I have realized in the last few years when I lived across the street from the Milwaukee Rescue Mission. For those of you who aren't familiar with the Rescue Mansion, it is essentially the hobo Mecca, where they all congregate while enjoying Flamin' Hot Cheetos and Newports, truly the finer things in life. If you have the impression in your head that all homeless people are like the dirty faced bums from the 1930's who lived in boxcars and carried all their possessions in a handkerchief tied to a stick you wouldn't exactly be correct, but you certainly be wrong either. These days there happens to be quite a vast dichotomy of hobos, and they are quite an interesting species. There's the Nam vet who keeps to himself and just sits on the sidewalk, the wannabe Nam vet who unleashes incessant jibber-jabber about the cruelty of the government yet somehow forget that most of their problems started when they dropped out of high school, and the "just don't give a shit" hobo (my personal favorite) who has accepted the fact that he's homeless and fully understands the humor I find in his overall state of being. These particular hobos are the ones that are more likely to do tricks for you or have a funny sign in order to get a few handfuls of change. True American entrepreneurial spirit if I do say so myself.

Now if Milwaukee is the previously mentioned Mecca of hobo activity then my neighborhood has an active hobo splinter cell. Until I moved to Lakeview I never imagined that amongst the famous architecture, historical baseball stadium, and scenic lakeshore there would be a bum population, but there's one particular neighborhood corner that is a hotbed of vagrant scalawag shenanigans, and it just happens to be around the corner from my apartment. To illustrate what I'm talking about, here's a picture I took last Friday. Let me assure you that people have serious concerns when they see a kid tiptoeing up to a passed out bum poised to snap some photos of him, because its exploitative and ultimately only funny to people like me, but fuck those guys because I've got a blog to write. (Notice that even in his midday slumber this particular bum refuses to let the tallboy of Old English out of his homeless clutch.)

What I found to be one of the most interesting aspects of the bum population is the strange amount of brotherly camaraderie they have; hobos seem to all be best friends, and I guess it makes sense because they need each other to pool their money together and buy menthols or a 5th of red raspberry Mad Dogg 20/20; life as they know it hinges on the collective. During the summertime in my neighborhood these rascals sit outside along Lake Michigan drinking  together while watching the joggers run by, all while speaking their indiscernible homeless banter only understood by them. Like I said before, their camaraderie and need for each other is rather strange. Its almost like watching an extremely destitute fraternity the way they hang out, arms across each others shoulders while pissing their pants and singing the beautiful songs of their youth. However, this camaraderie that seemingly ties together all the bums in town can only last as long as a pack of Black and Mild's or a bottle of Wild Irish Rose. The homeless are a fickle bunch, and I am not the first person to realize that watching bums argue in their mush-mouth language over the last cigarette until it escalates into a all-out fist fight is one of the funniest things a human can bear witness to (bumfights anyone?). The fact that stinky bearded men can be best friends one minute and mortal enemies is something I personally find intriguing, and getting to watch the transformation in their soggy minds firsthand is truly something special. Call me crude and down right low, but watching homeless men do silly things like punch each other is funny and there's no way around it. To see grown men attempt to wail on each other, only to fall down in a drunken stupor like a baby taking its first steps will always get a chuckle out of me. Its not funny because of the fact they don't have a place to sleep at night, or because they have a mental illness and no family to take care of them, its funny because they're yelling nonsense in the middle of the daytime and they smell like poo. So next time a bum asks you for some money for food (booze) give the poor chap a dollar, and remember that no matter what brought that goofball to where he is today, know that however he chooses to spend his vagrant days, its only a matter of time until hilarity ensues.

One final shoutout for this post, but this video was sent to SBB by longtime follower, first time contributor Matt Harmon, so enjoy, bitches...

Snappin' necks since 2009,
SBB