Smile Politely

I love a parade

It’s weird around the Coulter house this week. It’s normally just sort of weird, but this week is a new pinnacle. Bruce, the puppy of our three dogs, finally got his balls taken off yesterday. This now makes us a completely testicle-free household, and yes, before you ask, I’m including myself in this equation. I remember the days when we were slapping grapes all over the place and it’s gone. Now there’s nothing left but to lie around, chew rawhide, and remember those carefree days gone by, and yes, before you ask, I’m including myself in this equation. Let’s get it on.


So this past Saturday night a buddy and I headed downtown and once we got about three blocks away, we sort of glanced at each other nervously. We both had that look of “Was that a zombie eating a guy by the side of the road?” or maybe “Whoa, I’m seriously about to shit my pants.” Strangely, our nervous looks weren’t caused by either of these things, but instead by the realization that we were driving right into the middle of the Saturday Night Shit Show.

Yeah, I know, I shouldn’t be quite so Scroogey, but the downtown Christmas Parade was not exactly on our agendas for the evening. There’s just something unsettling about drinking and smoking around a bunch of little kids who are pissing their pants because Santa is going to ride by on a big float. Also, parking was a bit of a bitch. Geez, can’t a fella get drunk off his yang without having to deal with all the extra stuff?

Either way, we briefly clawed our way into the hornet’s nest and it was as bad as we expected. People were smiling and friendly and full of the holiday spirit. That was not what I was looking for at all when I left the house. Seriously, all this joy was about to make me vomit seven hours earlier than I planned and for a completely different reason. I don’t like others telling me it’s time to get in the holiday spirit and I also really don’t like parades.

Side Note: parades fucking suck and are for lazy people. It’s like the opposite of a museum. Instead of walking around and seeing cool things, you stand in the same place and terrible things pass by you in front of you. Also, very few museums throw candy at you … except maybe the museum of candy or something.

Anyway, we had a quick drink at the Piglet and as we were making our way back to the sanctuary of The Brass Rail, a person handed me a business-like card. Of course, I looked at them like they were insane. I glanced at the card and it was simply an invitation for me to join them at their church this coming Sunday. I then looked at them like they were insane and completely unaware of my violent tendencies. It also occurred to me that I should make business cards that simply say, ”Fuck Right Off.”

That’s awesome that you’re all religious and everything, but seriously, just bask in the warm glow of your own self-importance and leave the rest of us out of it for once. I’m not walking around handing out cards asking people to join me for a tumbler of scotch, but I bet I’d get a better response than the church people if I did. I get it, you like God, me too. It’s just that I’m not stalking him.

We eventually made it through the maze of happiness and settled in at the Rail. It was pretty empty; you couldn’t much see the parade; they had beer and whiskey; there was Rush on the jukebox; and not one single person mentioned church for the rest of the night. That, my friends, should be what Christmas is really all about.


I’m not really pissed off about this or anything, just mostly confused. I went to my doctor over in Mahomet the other day, one of those clinic sorts of places, and after I checked in something seemed different in the waiting room. It wasn’t a new TV or better chairs, but instead it was a big-assed Pepsi machine sitting right beside a big-assed candy machine.

I’m all for free enterprise, but the placement seemed a little odd, since I’ve never been told by my physician to increase my soda intake or to start eating more Ho Hos. I mean, the whole thing just seems weird. Still, I’m holding out hope that there will at least be a Burger King food kiosk by the time my next visit rolls around. They could put it right by the cigarette machine.


When I was a kid, the only good thing about going to the doctor was getting to read those “Highlights” magazines. My favorite part was Goofus and Gallant, two brothers who did things differently. Basically, one of them was a selfish, careless bastard while the other one was really sweet and caring … and also sort of a pain in the ass. Here’s an example in case you don’t remember.

If you’re still having trouble grasping the concept, pretend it’s the Illinois football and basketball programs instead. I’ll let you figure out which one is which.


This would be the worst live show ever, but it’s sort of hypnotic in a short spurt. Plus, it’s pretty easy to make all sorts of jokes, like, I don’t know, um, “Wow, she needs both hands to hold that organ.”

I’m assuming all the balloons in the background are meant to represent testicles … or maybe they really are just balloons.


That kid who apparently plays the “1/2 Man” on Two and a Half Men now says you shouldn’t watch his show. I couldn’t agree more. He says not to watch it because it’s disrespectful to the lord and filthy. I say not to watch it because it’s fucking horrible.

My favorite charity event, The Yuletide Silver Bullet Taint Measuring Contest, has been canceled this year. Apparently it’s all sort of running together.

I’m saving up bottled water, canned goods, and lots of vodka, just in case this Andrew WY2K thing turns out to be something.

Actually, that previous thing is not really a thing, as not even the end of the world couldn’t stop that dude from partying.

Buona Sera, senorina, kiss me goodnight.

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