Ugh, Uma. Uma, Ugh.

While heading northbound up Mexico’s route 307 yesterday morning, traversing the Yucatan peninsula in the pouring rain (route 307 is easily the weirdest road I have traveled before, Highway of Death aside, of course. Throw in an early morning rainstorm and it is all the more surreal, tipped over vans full of vases scattered along the road withstanding), I was most certain that The Lady Friend and I were concluding a most successful romantic holiday in that drunken slice of real estate known as Quintana Roo, Mexcio.

Sure, the whole thing started out with me being a rather hung-over crybaby last Wednesday morning [I threw up on three non-consecutive occasions during my travels last week – including once on the conveyer belt at Lambert International (I apologize if anyone saw that. Gross.)] which is completely and totally to be blamed on the tasty pints I enjoyed at the ever comfortable cold weather bar that is Seamus McDaniel’s on last Tuesday (The Tuesday before Thanksgiving is the new Wednesday before Thanksgiving -- I’m not sure if you knew that or not.) And sure, both The Lady Friend and I were leaving our neighbor to the south with tremendous head colds, but by God Shit, it was a successful trip.

We checked into Cancun’s airport without a hitch and were ready to get back home, happy as could be. However, thirty minutes after takeoff, I was hoping for the plane to crash. Something quick and painless would be nice, but I wouldn’t mind something drawn out and excruciating either, as long as the end result was the same: Sweet, sweet death. Why, you ask? Because of the in-flight movie: “My Super Ex Girlfriend.”

Even at the start of the movie, I was apprehensive. No way was it going to be good. Panicked, I looked for entertainment elsewhere. My books had all been read, as had the in-flight magazine. I couldn’t play Tiger Woods Golf on my phone because while I am certain that the FAA has indeed come to the harrowing conclusion that cell phones actually do not interfere whatsoever with airplanes, they just like fucking with us. I could try to play solitaire on my ipod, but with my stupid non-responsive fingers, I generally get flustered after 30 seconds of trying to work those tiny buttons and feel like thumping some hippies in confusing anger. I was out of options. It was in-flight movie or nothing.

So when I dejectedly plugged those weird two pronged headphones into my armrest, I obviously did not have exactly the highest of expectations, and after a slight giggle at simply the fact the Rainn Wilson was in it, my fears were confirmed: It was the worst movie I had ever, ever seen.

Alas, there was no plane crash, no flooding of the cabin by lethal gases, nor any other forms of escape from the sheer torture of “My Super Ex Girlfriend.” And at the time, how I wish it would have been so. I no longer fear hell, as it cannot possibly be half as tortuous as a Luke Wilson – Uma Thurman vehicle. Pure, absolute anguish it was. Hell on Earth. Or, in my case, above the Earth.

(I honestly can not believe how bad it was. How was this movie ever made? Did anyone first read the script? Was everyone drunk during filming? Were the CGI’s done on an Atari? Did anyone else see this movie? Am I alone here in this cold, post “My Super Ex-Girlfriend” apocalyptic world? So cold, so alone…. So many questions. Where is my Ford Lincoln Mecury in this brave new world of ours?)

Throw in a two and one half hour wait for our luggage upon arrival back to the Lou, and it was officially a bad day of travel. Now I sit here, two in the morning, trying to talk to some people across the pond who very well may speak English, but we sure as hell are not conversing in the same language, nursing a head cold and an empty stomach, and I just realized I need a damn vacation.

I can't lie: It's great to be back.

Hopefully, the snow gods feel like playing tonight and I can get a good old fashioned snow day tomorrow, to go along with an evening full of magical whimsy and Newcastle, and nurse myself back to sanity.

[Also, if any of youse are interested in game shows in general and Jeopardy in particular, a member of the Sports Frog’s message board “The Swamp” (which, nerdy as I may be, is the only message board I actually frequent these days) is currently kicking names and taking ass all over Alex Trebek’s pompous moustached mug this week and it makes for some interesting, semi-insightful reading on the inner working of the Jeopardy machine. Ironically, the contestent who goes by “Ryan” in real life, goes by “Turd Furgeson” in The Swamp, which is a name, as you very well may know, that is funny. It’s a funny name.]

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So Long, Suckers!

If you need to get a hold of either The Lady Friend or I during the next week or so, we can be found here, drinking these, eating this, and not giving one of these.

Back to Tulum for Al... Anything to escape the shocking comedy stylings of Michael Richards. Honestly, the most unbelievable thing to come out of this whole brew-ha-ha? He's 57 years old! That's older than Alfonso Soriano will be by the time his novelty contract with the Cubs expires (but only by a year or two).

If you need any help passing the time, Drinko is more than recommended. Phenomenal game.

Happy Thanksgiving, Internets. Keep it clean while I'm gone.



Welcome Back, Scotter

Thanks for re-upping, Speeze. Your triple against the Brewers on Sep. 30th (a hit which essentially clinched the Cards playoff spot -- a playoff spot which would blossom from a tiny worm into a large cobra as the Cards went on to win the World Series) was one of the most thrilling moments I have ever experienced at the ol' ballpark. Glad you're back; I'll give you an "O" anytime.

(That sounded weird.)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've found a way to make this week drag out even longer. Much like The Phish, The Lady Friend and I are both Down With Disease (Phish jokes the day after The Great American Smokeout, Al? What's next? Spending the weekend eating nitrous balloons and taking shwills of Sammy Smith at the A-Okay Campground outside of Deer Creek, brah?)and will spend this lovely fall day eating soup and, perhaps, crushing.

Hey, a guys got'sta gets laid.

[have a great weekend kiddo-s. godspeed on the drinko-ing.]




Quick Thoughts for a Thursday During THE LONGEST FREAKING WEEK OF MY LIFE

The Lady Friend and I were out doing a little Christmas shopping on Sunday night when we stumbled across what may very well end up being the greatest invention ever made: Drinko.

You guessed it: Plinko + Shots = Drinko.

Tyler Durden Mozzy and some friends are hosting a party at a lake house in Litchfield, IL (a town which I have long been absolutely infatuated with. Exit 52 on I-55, it's easily the best interstate exit west of the Appalachians and East of the Mississippi. The best exit in all off America, you ask? I-95, VA exit 130, simply for the WaWa there. It's fucking phenomonal.) this Saturday and drinko will most certainly be put to the litmus test.

And since Price is Right games combined with alcohol aren't nearly exciting enough on their own, I'm in the beginning stages of figuring out a way to incorporate the completely legal aspect of gambling into it.

So, hopefully Sunday morning, as we guide the Honda back southbound on 55, I will be sans hangover, pocket full of cash, happiest man in the world. Of course, chances are at about 2 in the morning, I'll yell "You'll probably get really confused and end up bidding 'Hot Dog'" stumble out into the cold, pass out, get raped by a bear, and die instead, and I won't even live to see Sunday morning.


Today is the much fabled “Great American Smokeout,” a day where American (cigarette) smokers are encouraged to quit smoking. In high school, we always found this day hysterical, mainly because to us, the term “smokeout” was only used if you wanted to describe being super high.

And while I no longer smoke (unless you’re offering), I still find the term “The Great American Smokeout” strangely hilarious. I sent an e-mail to my faux cousin Jeremy earlier this week to remind him to get high today and we ended up wondering why in the hell some anti-cigarette smokers would name their anti-smoking day something which is so pro-pot smoking.

His hypothesis:

“It had to have been done on purpose. I think some stoners decided they wouldnt have a cig one day, but would just get extremely powered instead. I imagine it went something like this:

Dude: Hey man, Im not going to have a cigarette all day today.
Dude's Buddy: So you're going to quit smoking?
Dude: Nope....Im just going to take one day off....I'll get extremely powered instead....all day long.... I'll call it the great american smokeout.
Dude's Buddy: Good idea, man....I wonder if it will ever catch on?
Dude: Who cares? Pass me the Randy's.

And so the Great American Smokeout came to be.”

Is anyone else beginning to get the sneaking suspicion that e-vites are beginning to take over their lives? I have no less than eight e-vites floating around for future events right now. I got an e-vite from my sister to have dinner this weekend. Is that really necessary? Couldn't just do a simple phone call? No?

Actually, it’s pretty much nothing more than another outlet for me to say mildly inappropriate things on, so in all honesty I love them to death and send them out whenever I can as well.

Again, whateves.

Just wanted to put it in print: Kansas lost, at home, to Oral Freaking Roberts last night. And Illinois played minus their two best guards and best forward and won by 21. It's early in the year, I know, but I just like saying this whenever possible: Bruce Weber is now 2-0, The Fraud That Is Bill Self is 1-1.

Suck it, Self.

Also, Walking Recruiting Violation Kelvin Sampson and his Indiana Hoosiers lost to Butler earlier this week. Enjoy your one year of Eric Gordon and years of probation his recruitment brought you, IU fans. And get ready for more losses to Butler under "Coach" Sampson.

Finally, the school that I almost went to (Bradley) played the school that I actually did got to (SIUE -- Inexplicably playing a D-I school during the regular season) and won, but Southern Evil played them respectably, huzzah moral victories!

I love college basketball.

If this week doesn't end soon, I may very well kill somebody.

Or drink a bottle of wine.

Either or, really.



It's Going To Be A Long Week

In less than 200 hours from right now, I will be lounging on the freshly raked beaches of Tulum, Mexico; top off, tunes playing, and working on my 18th mojito within a thirty five minute span. So excuse me if I am a little Schiavo today (to borrow a phrase from the ever eloquent Ace Cowboy).

Instead of anything from yours truly, I'm directing youse punks to other parts of the extranet, to a delicious little film noir about Mario & Luigi taking a wrong turn and ending up in Vice City. What can I say -- I'm a sucker for nostalgia, mushroom jokes, and fractured english.

Grand Theft Mario Bros - Robot Chicken - video powered by Metacafe

And, yes, it is going to be a looooooooooooong week. Yes it is.



Happy God Damn Birthday, Marines

231 years old? You don't don't look a day over 30. Except you, Evelio. You look like your 50. And gay. Very, very gay.

Anyway, happy Veteran's Day weekend, everybody. If you know a vet, buy them a beer. If you are a vet, drink said beer.

(And yes, that was nothing but a shameful attempt in hopes that somebody will pay for my drinks this weekend.)

Also, free haircuts at The Hair Saloon For Men! (the moustache in their logo has always creeped me out.)

[have a great weekend, kids. tip your barkeeps.]



Thursday Quick Thoughts

Thanks to links from Deadspin, The Riverfront Times, and a slew of message boards, The FYC is having its most popular week ever! Nearly all of these links are here to view the Glorious Chris Duncan Dry Humping the World Series Trophy pics, a page which is quickly becoming the most viewed post in this virtual rags history – which is either saying something about the awesomeness of those pictures or about the quality of my work – what exactly it’s saying I don’t know, but I have a feeling it’s “YOU SUCK! DUNC ROCKS!”

Anyway, if I was a huge tool, I’d say something like “We’re getting 5,000 unique visitors a day!” Alas, I am only a small tool, so I will just mention it in passing. But I will say this to anybody new to The FYC: Stop reading it. Right now. Save yourself the trouble.

If you don’t stop now, in a few weeks, you’ll be sitting at your computer, reading this shit and you’ll say to yourself “All this douchebag does is talk about drinking with his “buddy Mozzy” (who may or may not even really exist), how he beat Contra while naked last week, and how much he’d like to open mouth kiss Adam Wainwright. Why the fuck am I reading this?” Then you’ll close out your browser and get back to doing what you do best: masturbating to tranny porn.

So I’ll save you the trouble. Just stop reading this now.

Thank you.

The Lady Friend and I went and saw a screening for “Stranger Than Fiction” last night. Good movie, not great… but definitely good. However, I would like to announce to America that it is not necessary to laugh every time Will Ferrell does something. Look, I love the guy too, and lord knows “Old School” and his SNL clips have left me laughing many a nights, but “Stranger than Fiction” really wasn’t too much of a comedy. I know that you think you’re supposed to laugh when you see Will Ferrell do something, but you don’t have to. Especially when he’s not even doing something funny.

Buster Bluth, on the other hand...

I haven’t seen a teenager in at least three years that I wouldn’t like to slap. Are we raising a generation of dickbags? When did I become a 75 year old man? Get off my lawn!

Based on Valatan’s advice, I switching my political allegiances to the Know Nothing party. I’ve always hated Catholics and as far as I'm concerned immigrants can go to hell, too (unless they’ve lived here for 21 years).

I’m getting heated up for some college b-ball, especially this year’s Busch Braggin’ Rights game. Illinois might be struggling and Mizzou might be improving, so maybe this year it won’t be a 40 point blowout. My prediction? Illinois by 38. Anyway, to help get you ready, too, here’s a clip via IlliniWonk of Brian Randle doing what he does. I coached that kid in a basketball camp when he was in 7th grade, and I’m pretty sure he was able to do this back then, too. Although my mind may be cloudy from all the box wine and naked Contra. Enjoy:



2006: The Bizzaro 2004 (Or: Another Long, Boring Post About Politics: Just Shut Up About it Already, Al!)

Well, then.

I was pretty damn surprised that Jim Talent actually conceded defeat to Claire McCaskill so early in the morning hours – I was convinced that this one was going to be contested, and go to recount, and be dragged on and on and on and on, like some rambling fucking blogger that doesn’t know how to end a damn sentence, even though it is clearly going nowhere and just needs to end before somebody gets hurt, damn it.

Anyway, as I drove into work this morn, votes in Kansas City had just started coming in and the votes for McCaskill began to pile up. That’s when I figured Talent’s campaign would dig their heels in and prepare for a fight. Thank God, they did not. It’s over.

But while I was thinking we had a long, drawn out battle on our hands, my mind began to drift back to 2000 and our presidential election then. I was 20 years old, living out in North Carolina, hating my job and wondering why in the hell I ever dropped out of college, when my buddies and I decided to throw an election night party. It was determined that we were to drink cheap rum until we had a new Commander in Chief (yeah, that’s right: I was underage drinking. Don’t tell anyone though. Aside from killing a hooker in Memphis and that horrible arson spree I went on while on holiday in North Yorkshire, it’s actually the only time I have ever broken the law).

Sometime around 2 am, we were all unbelievably bombed and it was becoming abundantly clear that Florida couldn’t make up their damn mind about who they wanted to win, so we called it a night. Work the next day was actually quite a treat since I was still drunk until about 3 in the afternoon and my buddy Sammy and I were thrown out of our office because we wouldn’t stop singing our kick ass a cappella version of Styx’s “Come Sail Away.” Now, I sit here drinking green tea (tea?) at 2 am, getting paid to solve some issues, and it is obvious that I am not nearly as cool as I was six years ago. This saddens me to no end.

Anyhoo, 2006 (thankfully) will not be another 2000. Nor will it be 2004. In fact, if anything, 2006 is the bizzaro 2004:

In 2004, the Cardinals steamrolled their way to 105 regular season wins only to be crushed by the Red Sox in the World Series. A week later, we had elections, and the dude and party I voted for, in an election that I really believed that they had earned if they would have won, lost.

In 2006, the Cardinals hobbled their way to a paltry 83 regular season wins, backed their way into the playoffs and then got hot and somehow won the effing World Series (although, I’m still not convinced that actually happened). A week and a half later, we had elections, and the chick and party I voted for, in what was more of the Republicans losing it then the Democrats winning it, won.

The similarities (or differences, I guess) are striking.

(Okay, maybe they're not. What the fuck ever... Just go with it.)

But even without the (drunken) drama of 2000 or the hand wringing of ’04, last night, as always with an election night, did make for some fine TV. Comedy Central’s Midterm Midtacular was as well done as I had hoped for (the last segment of The Colbert Report was one of the funniest moments I can remember ever seeing on the intelevision.) and Fox News and MSNBC were both (unintentionally) entertaining as always.

I do hope that now that the Democrats have some semblance of power in Washington, The Daily Show and The Colbert Report can be just as funny as they have been over the last few years.

Because someone’s going to have to make fun of the Democrats now that they’re the ones fucking things up.

But whether you are liberal or conservative; gay, straight, or bi-curious; white, green, or brown; smoker or non-smoker; a fetus or an old prospector; libertarian or socialist; a wino, gyno, or rhino; spooky, kooky, or Chinese: it’s important to remember that we are all winners today. There are no more campaign ads.

It’s over. Finally.

PS. I’m voting straight a Whig ticket in ’08. Or maybe Bull Moose.



Vote Yes on Amendment Eddie Money

It's November 7th, 2006. Time for you to go stand around a bunch of octogenarians that smell like grandma's couch and pretend that your pointless punching of a button could possibly make a difference in this imposingly large, complicated existence of ours. Well, if that doesn't entice you to go to the polls, how about this:

If you promise to vote, I'll let you watch this Eddie Money video. Or, conversely, if you don't go vote, I will make you watch this Eddie Money video:

Democracy and "Walk On Water": Makin' 'Merica great since 1805.

[Update - Two things I learned while voting this morning:

  1. Poll workers do not find jokes equating voting Libertarian to "just throwing your vote away" even remotely funny.
  2. I can still jump and slap a regulation backboard. Poll workers don't like it when you do that, either.

Now get out there and be somebody!]



"No, Dunc... Oh My God."

Some people know how to celebrate winning the World Series in style, and some people (Chris Duncan) just dry hump the freaking trophy:

And then strip down to their spandex shorts, take their tops off, and just hang out:



Mailin' It In Mondays

Oh, like you really care. Go waste your company's bandwidth elsewhere.


That's all I gots. I'm gonna go find those brain cells I lost on Saturday night now.



Holy God Shit

I was planning on throwing up some pics from last weekend's parade/rally (thanks again for the tix, Cathy!), but fucking blogger ate them, and I'm not going through the process of uploading them again (what do you think I do for a living? Write blog posts all day?), so you don't get to see them.

My frustrations with Blogger, coincided with the fact that VH1 Classic just played Phil Collins' "Don't Lose My Number" for the fourth night in a row (switch it up, guys!) has left me marinating in my office in a stew of Diet Coke and curse words.

And it was during my string of profanities that I let lose one of my favorite curses, and it's one that I had not used in quite some time: "Holy God Shit."

It's something that I once said on accident (I was going for a "holy dog shit" -- very similar to the time I said "Put that in your Pope and smike it!"), but it got such a reaction out of my uber-religious buddy OG that I hung on to it, mainly just to piss him off as much as possible. OG was a guy who actually waited 'til he was married to have sex (on purpose!) and he had an unbelievably creepy mustache, so my use of "Holy God Shit" was warranted. How? I don't know. But it was.

Anyway, that's my favorite curse... What's yours?

[have a great weekend, comrades. if you need me, i'll be drinking for charity.]



A Post In Which I Talk About Politics (or, "I Can't Imagine That This Post Will End Well.")

A few years back, when I still gave a shit about some things, I followed politics. “Politics are like sports for grown ups” I used to say. Then, sometime after the 2004 elections, I realized calling myself a “grown up” was factually incorrect on about a hundred different levels, so I reverted back to my old habits of just following sports and collecting old Archie comic books*.

And with that decision, my delves into the political world stopped. Combine that with the fact that this November will be the first time I have ever not been an Illinois resident during an election, and I have no idea what or who I am voting for next week. This is the second thing I thought of when I officially moved into the city of St Louis this summer, the first being that I feared my body would go into a state of shock during this year’s Busch Braggin’ Rights game and I would start punching myself in the face out of sheer confusion. But that is an issue I will get further into next month.

Anyway, the point is I am now a resident of Missouri, and after never following Missouri politics before in my life, I have no idea what the hell is going on.

So here is what I am tentatively voting on next week and why:

Amendment 2 (Or, as I call it "that one with Alex P. Keaton and Jeff Suppan"): The fact that the good people supporting Amendment 2 could get Michael J. Fox and not, say, Eric Stoltz, on their side means that I am I voting "No" on Amendment 2… Or "Yes"… Actually I’m really not sure which I’m supposed to do, I just know I’m voting whatever the hell way Marty McFly wants me to, lest he go into the future and frame my kids for damaging the clock tower.

Amendment 3 (Or, "the smoking one"): Amendment 3 is essentially a sin tax on cigarettes. Now, I am not opposed to sin taxes, and someday when I marry that sweet little Mormon girl I have always dreamed of, I will become a teetotaler of all things vice related and will staunchly support any and all sin taxes. However, back here now in reality, I happen to know for a scientific fact that nothing goes better with a stiff whiskey drink than a Camel Light (well, that and a handjob, but I don’t think you could sin tax those. Maybe, though). And since I try my best to always buy my own smokes (the world hates bummers), a sin tax on cigarettes would mean that I would be paying more money for said smokes.

And me voting to charge myself more (!) money on the things which I happen to enjoy makes about as much sense as dropping a bunch of bats carrying napalm out of an airplane and into the industrial district of Osaka Japan in 1944 (that is to say it’s not going to happen and is pointless to even think about). So, to conclude my thoughts on Amendment 3: I enjoying smoking when drunk, the overuse of italics, and obscure WWII references.

Then there’s the big Senate race between Jim Talent and Claire McCaskill. Neither of these two bush leaguers could hold the jocks of the fine, funnily named Senators from my home state and from their TV ads, the only decision I can make is that they are both asshats and neither of them deserve to be voted for in any election unless it is to be named the “World’s Biggest Bag of Douche.” As you probably have just deduced, their television ads are underwhelming to say the least. However, it was a radio ad for Talent that won my vote. And that vote will be for McCaskill.

Talent’s ad equated that a vote for McCaskill would be a vote for John Kerry, Hillary Clinton, and Ted Kennedy. Since I probably would vote for Clinton if she ran for President and I actually did vote for Kerry during the last Presidential election, I’m 2/3’s sold right there already. But combine that with the fact that I share more in common with Ted Kennedy than I do with any other man alive (we are both Irish Catholic, both enjoy the art of drinking, both of our fathers were Nazi sympathizers**) and the case is closed: I’m voting for McCaskill.

What could Talent do now to win my vote? Aside from passing legislation to name Andrew Gold’s “Thank You for Being a Friend” the new National Anthem, I’m really not sure. Although I will say that an endorsement by a certain gentlemen named Glenn Frey would not hurt his candidacy in my eyes.

There’s my votes, Internets. Think I’m making a mistake and want me to change my vote? Or am I doing something right and want me to stay the course? Drop a comment off below and state your case.

Otherwise, shut your fucking mouth and watch this. I really wish that I lived in Wisconsin right now and could vote for the bizarre, insatiable, and downright dangerous sexual habits of Ron Kind.

*I haven’t seen an Archie comic book in at least fifteen years, and I have no idea why it would have popped into my head as something to identify with my childhood. I honestly out bizarred myself with that one.

**Since my dad has never said anything bad about the Nazi party to me personally, I can only assume that he is, in fact, a Nazi sympathizer.



Carlos Mencia is the Man You Hate the Most

You kept it close, Interwebs, but Carlos Mencia has officially won the title of The FYC's least favorite person, beating out Michael Rapaport by a total of 27 to 23.

What does Carlos Mencia win for his adventures in sucktitude? A poorly built catamaran* and the top place on The FYC's Ten People Liked the Least list. Let's update The List, shall we?

The FYC's Ten People Liked the Least:
10. Bill Self
9. Magilla Gorilla
8. William Faulkner
7. William H. Seward
6. Sali Berisha
5. Matthew Lesko
4. Wilhelm von Homburg
3. Santa Claus
2. Michael Rapaport
1. Carlos Mencia

The lessons? A) Nobody likes a guy whose real name is Ned, but goes by Carlos; and B) Nobody likes a guy who steals jokes from George Lopez (mainly because George Lopez isn't funny, either. But also because it ain't cool to steal. Unless mail fraud is somehow involved.)

*Catamaran not included

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"I'll be dead in the cold, cold ground before I recognize the state of Missouri."