This is awesome

From the Chicago Tribune:
Attorney General Alberto Gonzales' former chief of staff D. Kyle Sampson suggested firing Chicago federal prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald in a 2006 meeting with then-White House counsel Harriet Miers, Sampson told the Senate Judiciary Committee this afternoon.
Sampson proposed adding Fitzgerald's name to a list of U.S. attorneys slated for dismissal, but was greeted by silence from Miers and another White House lawyer, Bill Kelley. "They just looked at me." Sampson, under questioning by Illinois Sen. Dick Durbin, said he immediately realized that bringing up Fitzgerald's name was inappropriate and he regrets mentioning him to this day.

He's hot

Seriously, I'm all over the Comptroller General. If Joseph P. Kennedy and FDR had a child together. . . this is we'd you'd get. He's really pissed about the HUGE national debt, fyi.

A new crew for The View

Alright, so I've been off work for eight weeks now so today I'm celebrating by watching The View. Twenty- three minutes into the show and I'm ready to jump out my window. Or get on the next flight to NYC and kill them. It's brutal. They're yelling over each other, struggling to sound remotely intelligent while debating the U.S. attorney firing scandal.

Now my friends and I have been known banter back and forth about the issues of the day. Usually drunk, always funny and engaging, I'm thinking we need to replace Rosie, Joy, Barbara, and Elizabeth. What follows is a fictionalized transcript of a debate on the same topic The View ladies are attempting to tackle.

Angie: I can't beLIEVE they said my boyfriend is like doing a bad job or whatever.

Rusty: What are you talking about dude. . . whose round it is?

Jennifer: Whose round it is? I got the last one.

Angie: FITZGERALD FUCKING ROCKS!

Jennifer: I miss Bubba.

Angie: Let's call someone!

Red: Give me your phone.

Rusty: Let's call Canada!

Angie: I can call whoever I WANT! It's a free country. . . for like another week or so at least. .

Rusty: Ha! You're funny dude. Here, here's that Toronto guy's number. .

Angie: It's his voicemail. . . hello Canada? This is the United States of America calling. Please call us back at your earliest convenience.

Red: Alright, another round?

Rusty: YEAH!

Angie: Seriously, Bush blows. The world's going to end. Who cares if I get a job. I need a cigarette.

Rusty: Whatever dude, you always say that.

Red: Whatever.

Jennifer: I miss Bubba.

What is wrong with this picture?

Do you remember that scene from Ferris Bueller's Day off when Matthew Broderick disappears and then when his friends find him, he's floating by in a parade?

Well yesterday in Greektown, the two troubled youths you see here with the red arrows kinda did just that. Perhaps I need to get out more, but it was one of the funniest fucking things I've ever seen.

Yesterday began ordinarily enough. I woke up, had a little coffee, and met Rusty to head to Grant Park to watch Maria (the troubled youth on the right) run in the Shamrock Shuffle. We collected our runner at the end of the race, went to Miller's for lunch and beers and met Bradley (troubled youth on the left) who has abstained from beer for like a year. This of course, inspired us to ply him with as beer as possible (or it at least inspired me.)

After lunch, it was off to Greektown to Dugan's where we were surprised to find the neighborhood abuzz with some sort of Greek celebration. Halsted was lined with Greeks and Greek enthusiasts, but our beloved Irish bar had plenty of seating near the big open windows and $8 pitchers. With a sunny, 70 degree day on top of this, one cannot ask for more, I think.

The boring parade started, and then stopped inexpicably like five minutes later.

"What in world would bring this parade to screeching a halt?" Bradley queried. We were super pissed because the Cook County Treasurer's truck was blocking our view of the Jesse White Tumblers, who completely rock.

"Those fuckers can fly!" Maria said. We could see their legs speeding through the sky over the top of stupid Dorothy Brown's vehicle. The parade started moving again, the next hour or so was a series of pitcher, cigarette, pitcher, moderately entertaining float with Greek goddesses and Spartans, pitcher, pitcher, cigarette. . . you get the idea, right?

Then things started to get interesting. I was finishing up in the powder room when I heard a freight train bust through the door.

It was Maria.

"I'M GOING TO BE IN THE PARADE!" She said, running into a stall with a blue shirt in her hand. She slammed the stall door behind her. I was like, ok, whatever, shrugged my shoulders and went back to our table. Bradley was no where to be found as well.

Rusty, a lovely Irish gal named Maureen, and I waited to see the above scene flash by. It was too much. I honestly thought that maybe they'd walk by, buried in a group of people but nope, there they were on a float, waving their Greek flags with a fevered passion for their new found heritage. Bradley said later he was waving and pointing at people saying, "I'm waving at you, yes you. I'm waving at YOU!"

I was never so proud to be a Chicagoan.

Last night at the anti-war rally

Oh no he di-int!

I know you all know that I want to take Fitzgerald behind the middle school and get him pregnant. I am, I'll admit, very biased on this U.S. Attorney story. But I hope the above story (click on the headline to read it) hopefully sways a couple of Bushies to realize the people they voted for, and defend at every turn, are a bunch of maniacs.



Putting my boyfriend Patrick Fitzgerald on a mediocre, not-distinguished list is hilarious. I think I'm the only one he hasn't prosecuted here in Chicago (because love isn't a federal crime....ha!) Democrats, Republicans, mobsters, gang bangers, white collar criminals. . . Ol' Fitz is bringing them all down.

Doesn't KSM look good?

Someone (whose name rhymes with smangie ) has way too much time on their hands.

I want to be a vegetarian

How can I get President Bush and his adminstration to stop saying things like "I serve at the pleasure of the president." Or, "the U.S. attorneys serve at my pleasure." You are not a king, sir. All you dickheads serve at MY pleasure (and the pleasure of those who read my blog.) It's like nails on a chalkboard.

I gave up meat for Lent, and its been smooth sailing. I'm still eating fish and eggs, and as of yesterday, I'm going to try and give dairy the heave ho as well. Am I the only one who never considered the fact that cow's milk was meant for to turn calves into fat cows and it has naturally occuring growth hormones in it that's not good for humans (especially women) to be drinking? It's interesting that soy milk and yogurt is almost twice as expensive as cow's milk and I'm sure that more to do with our agricultural policy and the dairy lobby than real production costs. Anyway, I'm going to give it a try and I promise to slap any of my friends or family (who serve at my pleasure) with a big, infected, cow udder if they roll their eyes.

This just in. . . Regis is up and doing well after his bypass surgery. Kelly Ripa is acting all choked up and happy, but I think really she wanted the show all to herself.

Read this blog today

I don't feel like posting. . . That crazy biotch from Dlisted will keep you entertained.

Finally, a candidate I can support

After the 2006 State of the Union, I posted this, telling everyone that in my world of lollipops and rainbows, the inflatable pilot from Airplane! is our president.

Well his name is Otto, and he wants to run for re-election.

Don't let the uniform fool you. Otto is pretty liberal. He supports gay marriage and universal health care. He's still smarting from the time when Reagan fired his air traffic controller buddies in the 80s, so he's a union man through and through. He does have a bit of a problem with the hootch, but he's working on it. We got the John Edwards camp to agree to keep the time Otto kicked his ass in a bar brawl on the down low--because hell, Edwards doesn't need to look any more girly.

Made out of vinyl, Otto is 100 percent committed to finding a way to turn back global warming. His carbon footprint is non existent, because most nights he's deflated and placed in his handy carrying pouch. There's no sprawling, energy guzzling mansion to explain here. He did, however have an affair during Bill Clinton's impeachment trial. But we got his goomad to promise to keep her trap shut.

He wasn't a POW like McCain, but he was MIA from 1998-2001. Someone left him in a cabana at a pool party and he was mistaken for a toy. He was sold at a garage sale for a quarter, and ended up on ebay where he was rescued. He doesn't like to talk about it.

Well, we're still scrambling to decide where he should formally declare. I say The View would be a good show for him to start getting over his play boy image, but he's a big Charlie Rose fan. . .

Tracy Morgan Wasted on Live TV

Regis is having bypass surgery

That's why I'm late with my post. I'm beside myself right now. And I'm a little thrown off with the time change.

Good morning!

Spring has sprung and everyone is going crazy. I love it. Fifty-degrees and we were all walking around yesterday like it was Death Valley. People were in shorts, drinking lemonade and cursing the heat (just kidding.) I went on a five mile walk, starting at the coffeehouse where I grabbed a large (yes large, I live in the last neighborhood where there are no Starbucks) coffee and headed east toward the Target on Roosevelt. I forgot that it was Maxwell Street market day, so I took a little rest to peruse the vast array of stolen power tools. I'm always on the lookout for a good deal on a table saw.

The U.S. Olympic Committee guys are long gone, I guess. I'm sure Mayor Daley and Chicago 2016 impressed the pants off them last week. I'm very much in the pro-Olympics camp, or I was until I realized I'm going to be 44 in 2016. That's depressing. Do you think my robot husband will want to go to watch rhythmic gymnastics? Maybe they'll have a cure for being 44 in the year 2016. Let's hope. Oh, and all that belly-aching about Chicago taxpayers being on the hook for $500 million, is whatever. Let's show the world we're not a bunch of cheap bastards!

So now I have to be weary of homeless ladies wearing bags on their feet? That Wrigleyville fire story is just awful. Those poor kids. Reading the Tribune coverage just reaffirms that news reporting wouldn't be for me. The piece mentions that the families of two of the victims (who were burnt beyond recognition) didn't want to comment because the Medical Examiner hadn't confirmed that their children were in fact, dead. Pressing people for comment in situations like that, not a fun job. I had to call the mother of a girl once who was brutally murdered and raped in the mid-80's because the guys who were convicted turned out to be innocent. I felt like an idiot asking her, "so what's your reaction?"

I am livid. LIVID!

You know how you can get so mad you can't see straight, let alone type? I wake up this morning, turn on the computer, and see this headline:

Gingrich had affair during Clinton probe

Oh my fucking God! I wanted to throw my laptop out the window. I can only hope that by writing about this on my blog, I will begin to see how funny this all is. I need help right now. Do I call 911? What? What do I do? How can I function in a world where Republicans and their moronic followers also live, and not want to kill them? Seriously, I have an interview this afternoon at this place where they help people take over other people. What am I going to do? How can I not tell the lady, "Uh, lady, this job sounds nice and all, but I will not be able to speak to, work near, or share the same water cooler with anyone who voted Republican in the 20th or 21st centuries." (I have no quarrel with Chester Arthur supporters.)

Read the Gingrich story. It's sickening. Gingrich fucking another woman, not his wife, while lampooning a man for infidelity is really something. And of course he says he's not a hypocrite, because they were going after Clinton, not for the blow jobs, but for lying about the blow jobs. Bull shit. Bull shit. Bull shit! They were like this bunch of fucking high school geeks pissed at the cool, popular guy who didn't trip over himself like they had hoped, so they had to scramble to sabotage him. And of course, it was about the sex--it always was, and with them it always will be. I don't know why it is this way, but it is.

And then we have Mr. Bush still sitting pretty in the White House. Starts a war on a hunch, blows billions of dollars, kills thousands of soldiers, embarasses his country at every turn, yeah THIS guy was never in any danger of going anywhere.

Have a great day.

Today is National Crazy Cat Lady Day

I love her

Cubicle shmubicle

For those of you keeping track, it's week five of recess. I was talking to Rusty last night, telling her it seems all at once like it has been longer than the 4.5 weeks, and shorter. Without the weeklong drudgery that keeps you looking forward to the weekend, each day is just that, a day. Oh it's Wednesday, you say? What's a Wednesday?

I am looking for one those regular "job" things I've been hearing so much about. I'm also going to pursue freelance work, because regardless of the intermittent longing for someone to ask me "what are you doing for lunch?" or say "Bob's being a total dick today!" there's nothing like working in your underwear. I had an interview on Monday and I even made a point of asking them what their bedhead and flip flop policy was.

In order to get my head on straight while I ponder my next step in life, I thought it would be a good idea to list some of the jobs I've had in the past to help regroup and refocus.

At age 13, I spent two weeks mid-summer "corn detassling" for minimum wage and maximum fatigue, sunburn, and inspiration to never have to do manual labor ever again

At age 15, I washed dishes at Vicki's restaurant, essentially a roadhouse in the middle of nowhere. How I got the job? My mom's derelict friends showed up one day and asked, "Does Angie need a job?" My mom's like, "sure does." And off I went.

At age 16, I stuffed the ads into the Saturday paper at the LaSalle News Tribune. You stood on your feet for hours, lost several pints of blood from paper cuts, and nearly hurled from the smell of newsprint and soy ink.

At age 17, I flipped burgers at the Hardee's. Highlights include cleaning a fryer, and encouraging a co-worker to spit in the food of a girl we didn't like from the Catholic high school.

At age 18-I worked at Walmart. Was promoted from the snack bar to fabrics and crafts.

At age 21-I rented tents and equipment to fraternities at the campus outing center. Brutal.

At age 23-Temp work. Favorite job including the midnight shift at the hospital switchboard. Major duty included paging the priest and checking out people when they died. Seriously, phone would ring and it was, "Mr. Thompson in 312." I'd interrupt, "Dead?"

Quite a resume, eh?

I killed a few brain cells

Take the test, don't cheat, and post the results here!

The posts get later and later

This dude sitting about three feet away from me at the cafe has all his hair piled on top of his head ala Marge Simpson.

Not a good look.

Good morning! I have a few things to report:

I just called Team Spears and asked if Britney needed a roomate at Promises. I had a rough ROUGH night on Saturday night and I blame it all on Jesus dying for our sins. Seriously. I had two friends over, one of whom gave up beer for Lent, so she substituted vodka. And I suggested wine. And Blue Moon made an appearance.

So let's do the math:
Wine + Blue Moon +Vodka + 2,332 marlboro lights + three thirsty, bored ladies + phones = (drinking and dialing) X (all sorts of insanity)

It was gross and best forgotten. But writing about it today feels somewhat cathartic. And I must say even at 34 I still have the ability to order up boys late at night. The boy store hasn't closed.

I'm doing a little freelance reportage for a monthly paper and covered a community meeting last night. I thought it was going to be BORING! But I saw an Alderman nearly cry, a guy from the Department of Planning and Development whine about how he worked on Pulaski Day, and a crazy man talk about tomahawks. Good times. And a little insider information for you: if you plan on buying a condo in a yet-to-be-built development ask if they have secured the permits (in fact, call the city) and find out if the neighbors want to firebomb your future home. Seriously. I can't believe a developer can sell 3/4 of a development and then hear the Alderman say the kabosh has been put on the permits because the neighbors are (rightfully) flipping out about huge, grotesque towers sprouting up in the middle their low-rise hood. At least ask these questions of your developer if there's an election going on.

And now onto laundry detergent. This is a bottle of $1.89 soap I picked up at the local store. I will be cleaning my clothes with the essence of Baby Seal. Who needs the Tide pen in their purses, when you can just pull a Baby Seal out of your purse and get that soup stain out of your blouse.

Oh, so THAT'S why he hasn't called. He's in the pokey!

Meet Hillard Jay Quint, aka Matthew Goldstein, a chap who appeared in a Cook County Court today for allegedly scamming ladies he met on the internets, out of some serious dough.

Read the story here. What's hilarious to me (and I don't mean to call out the women he scammed, especially the one who gave him over $160K) is the terrible Photoshop work he did to support his crazy claims. I love that fucking program, and I take issue with anyone who uses it for evil.

Take the picture you see here. After telling one of his victims he was named "Achiever of the Year" by Success Magazine (Achiever?) he sent this email:


What a creep. And the grayscale? Nice touch asshole.

So What's Going On?

My friend Nikki, 34, is a traveling snake oil saleswoman. She has to go to Texas frequently, and always seems to have problems getting out of there. Her latest trip has her stuck in Houston since like 1997.

I called her this morning to find out what's going on after seeing the following email from ol' girl Nik.

A little story...

Girl travels to TX for work. Girl has a flight out of Austin at 5:45pm. Girl sees a flight delay until 7:30. Girl has many flight delays out of TX. Girl's flight out of Austin was cancelled because of no flight crew. Girl then rents a car, finds another flight out of Houston, drives 2 1/2 hours to Houston, spends the night in a Hotel, goes to the wrong airport, takes a cab to the right airport, just makes checkin for her 7:30am flight, gets to the gate and ... you guessed it, flight delayed. Someone up there hates me!!!

Public Service Announcement

Thanks to Maria for this:

Rules to Drinking and Dialing

1. Only drunk dial when you are drunk. Everything else is false advertisement.
2. It is okay to call someone 27 times in one night. If you don’t remember it, it didn't’t happen.
3. If you are going to drunk dial a family member, say something nice. Ex. “Mom, I’m in McDonald’s and they’re playing our song. I love you.”
4. Dirty talk while drunk dialing is always preferred. Who doesn't’t want to hear your best raspy, phone sex voice at 3 in the A.M. asking to bend them over something??
5. Voicemails are always better. This way your friend can let their friends have fun at your expense for days, even weeks to come.
6. Drunk texting is alright… if you are prepared to read what you wrote the next day when you are sober.
7. It is definitely a good idea to call all of your exes and remind them that you were the best lover they’ve ever had and everything they know, they learned from you. This way you can sleep well at night.
8. You can also call this same ex and let him/her know, that you know that he/she still loves you. Then explain to him/her that “I would still love me too!”
9. If you are a frequent dialer, never get mad if someone dials you. Be happy they thought of you in this special time.
10. It is always a good idea to sing on someone’s answering machine or voicemail. Especially a show tune.
11. Drunk dialing should be fun and light hearted or dirty and sex crazed… never angry.
12. Most likely you will never drunk dial your best friends. They are usually the ones taking your phone away and reminding you that “you have a problem”.
13. If you deleted a number sober, it was probably for a good reason. Do not try to retrieve this number. Nothing good can come from it.
14. Always call someone you know. Finding random numbers in phone books is bad and usually leads to angry dialing.
15. If your cell phone dies, remember everything happens for a reason. Never borrow a friend’s phone to do your dialing.
16. Drunk dialing to a foreign country is usually too costly to be a good idea. But, if you really feel like if you don’t call this person you’ll just die, break rule 15 and use a friend’s phone.
17. Drunk dialing may lead to drunk muffin stuffing… be prepared.
18. When dialing remember that “hanging out” at 3 in the a.m. usually doesn't’t involve cards it’s probably going to be more like cheap lube and handcuffs.
19. Don’t drunk dial in the pool, tub, or rainstorm. It only ends up with you blow drying your phone when your far too drunk to be using electronics and you won’t be able to drunk dial anymore that night.
20. Never, I repeat, never drunk dial your boss, preacher, grandpa, or friend’s parents. If you are that hard up to call someone, there is an 800 number on Budweiser boxes