A pirate walks into a bar

The bartender says "Do you know you have a steering wheel coming out of your crotch?" The pirate says "Aaaarrrrrgh! It's drivin’ me nuts!"

Today be Talk Like a Pirate Day! For realz, Matey.

I’ve been wide awake for no useful reason since four o’stupid

I’m not supposed to exert myself for fear of ripping out my sutures, but it’s been six days and the massive gash in my wrist seems to be healing nicely (I have suitably gruesome photos of it if you want to start your day with a good splash of emesis) and I’m bored and restless and feeling fat from not exercising for a whole week AND WOULD IT REALLY CRIPPLE ME FOR LIFE IF I RAN THREE TEENSY LITTLE MILES IN THIS PERFECT RUNNING WEATHER?

Also: Look at the weird stuff you can find on the Internet when you’re wide awake for no useful reason at four o’stupid.

Today be Talk Like a Pirate Day! For realz, Matey.

A pirate walks into a bar. The bartender says "Do you know you have a steering wheel coming out of your crotch?" The pirate says "Aaaarrrrrgh! It's drivin’ me nuts!"

LEARN FROM MY PAIN AND HUMILIATION:

When you stumble on assorted three-packs of your favorite underpants—which never go on sale for 50% off—on sale for 50% off, before you avariciously put them in your online shopping cart and order them, take a moment to make sure that the reason they’re on sale for 50% off isn’t because THEY’RE COVERED IN FEARSOME SYMBOLS OF CRUEL, GRISLY DEATH.

(Ooh, look: One pair is in a charming windowpane check!)

Today be Talk Like a Pirate Day! For realz, Matey.

A pirate walks into a bar. The bartender says "Do you know you have a steering wheel coming out of your crotch?" The pirate says "Aaaarrrrrgh! It's driving me nuts!"

#Same

The Gronk in a loincloth

We're watching the Super Bowl on a 30-minute delay, but here are my opinions about the first-half commercials, not that anyone needs them but it's my blog and I am burning with essential psychographic insight:

• The Airbnb diversity commercial is as awesome as all of Facebook had promised it would be. But it didn't include the company name and I don't know the logo and the commercial content isn't related to the product so without being told beforehand I wouldn't have known what all that awesomeness was for.
• Christopher Walken reciting boy-band lyrics will inspire me to buy-buy-buy pretty much anything.
• Same with Jeffrey Tambor shushing stainy people.
• A car is a car is a car to me so all the many awesome car commercials I've seen have been totally awesome but I have no idea what brands they were each tied to.
• I'm the same bewildered consumer when it comes to wireless carriers. But Daddy's dead. Suddenly funny.
• The Gronk in a loincloth. The Gronk in a loincloth. The Gronk in a loincloth.
• DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES. If you get caught between me and the theater on opening day, you WILL be trampled. But if you promise to be quiet and show the profound reverence and worship that is due to all things Pirates of the Caribbean, you are welcome to join me.
• I'm not kidding about the silence.
• The Gronk in a loincloth. The Gronk in a loincloth. The Gronk in a loincloth.

Christmas gifts we received

Clockwise from the top left:

Remote control holder. My niece and nephew have a cool little shopping program at their grade school where they get to buy real presents—like the things you'd find in a real store—at a deep discount. And since their parents don't shop with them for these gifts, the kids get to enjoy an element of surprise when their families open their gifts. Last year they got me a ceramic snowgrandmother figurine and a wooden nutcracker in a faux Cubs uniform. So I won't complain about the more functional things they got me this year. Like a red wooden remote-control holder with a built-in lazy susan.

Tupperware container. My sister also takes her kids to the dollar store every year with a list of people they have to buy for. In theory it's a great idea because the kids get to buy gifts for a ton of family members and friends and it costs my sister only twenty bucks. But the selection at the dollar store must be pretty limited. Because this year my niece bought the domestic partner this resealable plastic food container.

Back scratcher. I must look itchy. Or unlimber. Or maybe both. Because of all the things packed onto the dollar store shelves, this is what my nephew decided I needed the most.

iPod speakers. This gift is pretty cool. And since I actually own an iPod, it's also potentially useful. My nephew got it for me at the abovementioned school shopping program. Unfortunately, it takes a ton of batteries. And we keep forgetting to buy batteries. Even worse, I also keep forgetting to listen to my iPod.

Sword. The niece and nephew have discovered woodworking. And those little handicraft prodigies made everyone in the family a custom-designed wooden gift this year. My sister got a recipe holder that takes up more counter space than all her recipe books combined. My mom got a Jesus cross with the nails helpfully pre-pounded in. The domestic partner got a toy airplane that is, quite frankly, hopelessly non-aerodynamic and will never get FAA clearance. And I got a sword. With glitter on it. But not because I'm a big homo; I think the glitter is supposed to represent the metal part of the sword. And the duct tape, contrary to popular opinion, does not represent a handle sheathed in intricately braided strips of leather but rather an emergency patch-up job when the glue failed to hold the cross-parts of the handle in place. And do you know why they made me a sword? Because the little darlings paid attention when we went to Disney World and they know that Pirates of the Caribbean is my favorite ride ever. So, naturally, I needed a sword for Christmas. And now the domestic partner and I have a weapon in the house. A sparkly weapon. And if some swarthy bad guys break in and try to steal my back scratcher, they're gonna get a swift, sparkly trip to Davy Jones' Locker, Mateys!

What has a peg leg and a flaky crust?

A PIE-rate.

I totally just made that up!

Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day!

Audio! Images! But not at the same time!

We may not have been broadcast on TV, but one resourceful chorus member managed to capture our National Anthem performance from the radio and post it on YouTube, where the announcer got our name right—as opposed to the live announcer at Wrigley Field who called us the Chicago Gay Men's Choir, even though we're really the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus. There is a huge difference. Don't get me started. Oh, and that roaring sound you hear at the end of the song is not a battalion of club-wielding Republican presidential candidates beating the will to marry out of us—it's a military flyover. Presumably as a show of might and not as a recruitment tool:


Another chorus member who's a professional photographer took some great pictures, the grainy thumbnails of which I'm posting here for your viewing pleasure.

Here's what we looked like marching in in our not-gay-at-all red-and-pink ties. Fellow marathoner Matthew is on the far left. I'm the tiny little head fourth from the left:

On the way in, we passed a Pirate doing pushups. You know, just like every day:

Here's what we looked like waiting to sing in formation around home plate. Some of us need to learn what "stand still with your hands at your sides" means:

And here's our view into the stands as we waited to sing. Or your view of our butts as we waited to sing, depending on what you prefer to look at. Again, some of our members have no concept of standing still and looking professional in performance. These people will never get my extra kidney, no matter how much they need it. My extra kidney is reserved solely for non-fidgety people:

A pirate walks into a bar

The bartender says, "Hey, Pirate! Did you know you have a steering wheel sticking out of your fly?

The pirate says, "Aaarrrrgh! It's drivin' me nuts!"

Happy Talk Like A Pirate Day!

Ten miles!

Saturday was one of those perfect-for-running days: it was cool, breezy and relatively devoid of snipers shooting at us from the bushes. And we pounded out 10 miles pretty easily Saturday morning … aside from the fact that marathon training has apparently caught on like the macarena (or whatever the kids are dancing to these days) and the running trail was PACKED. It has gotten so bad that as our pace groups have been dispatched each morning, we've been instructed to run in a strict two-abreast formation (unless one of us has more than one breast) and even flatten ourselves to single-file when we encounter another running group. But nothing was said about the convergence of three pace groups heading south and two pace groups heading north with a few clueless walkers thrown in. There were moments on Saturday morning where the trail was no different from a crowded dance floor (except we were all dancing to the rhythm of life and I have yet to encounter an angry biker on a dance floor, but then I don’t get out much so what the hell do I know?).

In any case, here we all are before the race, looking bleary-eyed and hung over at 6:30 on a Saturday morning. Which isn’t such an irony-laced joke anymore—I’d been out drinking the night before with a bunch of people from my old office, and I’d had an entire fruity martini. And now that I’m such a seasoned drinker, I can authoritatively complain about the moron who designed the martini glass to promote maximum spillage of the stickiest drink known to (gay) man.


And here we are squinting into the sun for our post-run, pre-brunch victory photo. Don’t I look like I deserve a big plate of French (unless it's still supposed to be called Freedom) toast?


In other weekend adventures, I’ve been installing tile on our kitchen backsplash, which is taking waaaaaay longer than I’d anticipated. The process has elevated “pain in the ass” to whole new levels—especially since our kitchen walls are as straight as a televangelist and the science of grouting is apparently still in its infancy because everything I’ve read on the topic gives conflicting advice. I’ll post photos and strings of expletives when the project is done. In 2012.

I also saw the third Pirates of the Caribbean movie on Saturday night with the boyfriend, Matthew from my pace group, blogger David visiting from New York (who is even cuter and more charming in person) and his Chicago friend Franklin. While the movie is longer and more bloated than it needs to be, it’s dripping with magical Disney ambience and sumptuous (for a pirate movie) set decoration and scenic design—especially the mountain of wrecked ships in the cleverly named Shipwreck Cove. Jack Sparrow’s expressionistic dream sequences are a bit of an endurance test, but I loved the movie otherwise. I can’t in good conscience report that the boys felt the same way. And we were all more than a little peeved that the bowling alley in the movie theater—where we were going to grab a quick bite before the movie—wouldn’t let us in because I was wearing a tank top and it had a dress code. Seriously. Because nothing ruins a good bowling game like a guy who shows up to have a burger in an outfit that doesn’t show respect for the sport.

The boyfriend and I capped off the weekend watching the Tony Awards with another couple, a table full of Thai takeout and a pitcher of fruity martinis. And even though I still didn’t win a damn Tony, I’d say the evening was just about perfect.

A pirate walks into a bar.

The bartender says, "Hey, Pirate! Do you know you have a steering wheel sticking out of your fly?"

The pirate answers, "Aargh! It's drivin' me nuts!"


Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day.

Warming up for Sunday, me hearties

ONE

My first Chicago Half Marathon kicks off tomorrow morning at 7:30, tendons willing. After this week's Monday Of Pain and a week of rest and stretching (and good drugs!), things seem to have calmed down to the point where I think I'll be OK.

If you hear a scream worthy of Greek tragedy echoing across the land around 7:40 am (CT), you'll know things turned out differently.


TWO

Talk Like A Pirate Day kicks off tomorrow the moment you wake up.

If you need any help, I leave you with the lyrics to the theme song from THE BEST DISNEY RIDE EVER:

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me.
We pillage, we plunder, we rifle, and loot,
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho.
We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot,
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho.

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me.
We extort, we pilfer, we filch, and sack,
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho.
Maraud and embezzle, and even high-jack,
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho.

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me.
We kindle and char, inflame and ignite,
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho.
We burn up the city, we're really a fright,
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho.

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me.
We're rascals, scoundrels, villans, and knaves,
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho.
We're devils and black sheep, really bad eggs,
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho.

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me.
We're beggars and blighters, ne'er-do-well cads,
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho.
Aye, but we're loved by our mommies and dads,
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho.

A pirate walks into a bar

The bartender says, "Hey, pirate! You've got a steering wheel sticking out of your fly."

The pirate says, "Aargh! It's drivin' me nuts!"

* * * * *
ADDENDUM: Bill threw a hissy fit when he saw I posted this joke as if it were mine. So let me set the record straight (as it were): I got this joke from BILL. He likes pirates.

Shit.

We missed it.

Mark your calendars for next year.