Friday, December 31, 2010

Wazzup Dog?

Warning!!! Due to the frank nature of the topic below, reader discretion is advised.

I am not originally from the Chicago area, so my food preferences are a tad bit different than the locals. For example, hot dogs. I prefer just a little bit of ketchup and onion on my hot dogs. To my palette, they are a good compliment to quality frank. But ketchup is sacrilege in Chicago. You can't pay the local wiener purveyors enough to put some ketchup on your hot dog. You may as well ask them to kick a puppy and then eat it alive. They maybe, just maybe, will give you an old packet of Heinz that they found on the sidewalk 3 years ago. But they dare not break the seal on that Devil's juice called ketchup. For the demons summoned forth will surely bring an end to all mankind.

It seems that the only option is the Chicago-style hot dog. I have finally determined that Chicago style hot dogs are hot dogs for those that don't like hot dogs. They put all of the boldest flavored toppings possible on them. It is like they are trying to mask the fact that they are eating a hot dog. In fact, if I were forced to eat a piece of shit, I would ask if I could put it in a poppy seeded bun with some Chernobyl green relish, mustard, onions, a dill pickle, tomato, sport peppers, and just an eensy weensy dash of celery salt. That way, I could fool myself into thinking that I am not eating shit and maybe I am just eating a Chicago dog. I couldn't tell the difference. Nobody could because the shit dog is buried beneath a virtual Matterhorn of condiments. I do agree with the Chicago-doggers on one thing. In keeping with Chicago-dog tradition, the shit would have to be kosher, of course.

Happy New Year!!!
The Alpaca Buggerer

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

They Calll Him the Streak!

WARNING! This blog may contain images and/or words that some may find inappropriate for a quaint little family get-together at grandma's house. Or it may not. Your grandma might be the hippest chick to ever walk the planet. Anyway, this ain't granny's house, so fuck it. Let's get it on.

I find it a little odd that we have a name for a random crazy dude who runs across a sports field while wearing no clothes. A streaker. But we have no name for a guy that does it while fully clothed.
What do we call that guy? An Asshole! Yeah, that's right. That guy is an asshole. We as a society don't want to see that guy. We would rather have our beloved sporting event interrupted by the naked guy, the streaker. Get off the field, you clothed dick! Bring in the naked guy. Call us when you have no clothes on. If you are going to cause a disruption, make an effort. We want to see the fat naked guy run around the soccer field and then get tackled by some unfortunate rent-a-cop. That's pretty awkward for the poor security schlub that can actually run. If it were me, I'd just taze the guy and leave it at that. Let the medical people cart him off. They are used to that kind of thing.

You don't see streakers at certain sporting events, though. They are usually found at soccer matches or maybe the occasional baseball or football game. You don't see them at the Women's Gymnastics events at the Olympics. That would just be creepy. Some middle-aged fat naked dude running among 14 year-old Chinese tumbling freaks. Of course, a nude guy running across a soccer field isn't just a little creepy in itself. You also don't see streakers at swimming meets. I would give extra credit points to a streaker that dove in the pool au natural and swum a few laps.

In recent years, streakers have started putting advertisements on their body for websites and other stuff. So now we technically have professional streakers. You might be at a party and meet someone new.

Friend- "Hey this is Bob."

You-"Well hey Bob. What do you do?"

Bob-"I am in advertising."

You- "Oh really, what companies have you done ads for?"

Bob- "Oh, Golden"

You- "What do you do, print, TV, billboards, radio?"

Bob- "No, I do more of a live advertisement. You know, live events. Kind of a billboard, you could say."

WARNING! Half naked man with chicken cod-piece may reside below!!! You have been warned!!!!

WARNING! No really! He may have a diaper on his head, too.

WARNING! You don't believe me, do you? You will when you see the clothespins.


The irony is that everyone gets upset when we see a one-millionth of a second flash of Janet Jackson's boob. But, heaven forbid you have a streaker that has his clothes on. That guy's a dick. You want to see the naked guy. There must be some sort of homo-erotic thing going on there. Everyone is laughing their asses off, watching this guy for 5 minutes, while the security people are chasing him around the field like some modern day Keystone Cops. No, we have a freaking fit over what we may or may have not seen when Janet had her little, "malfunction."