Smokin Chronicles

Rick Santorum and his Lovely Catholic Way

Just when everyone was beginning to think that Catholicism was a dying religion with majority of its devout members in their 80s and the rest content with attending mass on Christmas, along comes ultra conservative, pure bred Catholic boy, Rick Santorum. He is a modern day Crusader, upholding the Catholic tradition and killing his way through the secular world that is standing in his way like a Muslim in the holy land.  In a metaphorical (or maybe not) sense, he’s totally down with violating the 6^th amendment in the name of the Lord. 

And nowadays, when you’re used to seeing more modern “neo-Christian” groups verbally sending sinners to hell, he takes the spear of judgment and stabs it straight in the heart of anyone that thinks differently than he does; paving the path of self-righteousness for Catholics once again.  Not even the golden Mormon, Mitt Romney can keep up with the amount of outdated religious doctrine this guy spews out on a nightly basis.

While this was not the norm for any Catholics that I’ve grown up with, Rick Santorum fights the good fight for those that follow the pope and says NO.  He says no to contraceptives, even if you’re trying to reduce the risk of cervical cancer. He says no to the thought gay marriage.  Basically, Rick says no to anything that can overcompensate for a lifetime full of bitterness because of his struggles to find his penis inside of a vagina. 

Ladies and gents, this man knows the modern day beatitudes and lives them too.  We are called to make the life of a white man as easy as possible.  We are called to withhold the value of religion no matter how many constitutional principles you how to flush down the toilet like a glob of gooey santorum (if you don’t already know, I’ll explain in the next paragraph).  We are called to uphold the sanctity of marriage by ensuring that birth control is least affordable for those that need to control it the most.

Adding to the irrelevant state that is his campaign, he’s made contraception and his strict reproductive-only stance one of the biggest talking points of his recent campaign.  Most likely to get the religious majority, but perhaps also that  people don’t get any crazy ideas due to his last name being synonymous with a certain product created by two guys bumpin’ nasties.

Google “santorum” (do it).  I know you probably think the search engine will come up with something along the lines of, bitter, ugly white man who had trouble getting tang in college and now he gets back at the world by trying every measure to enact laws that make it as difficult as is for him get laid.  Actually, in this instance, google search spreads the frothy truth.  Yes sir, one hefty glob of santorum will be enough to make even the writers of disgusting blogs puke (same as listening to one of his speeches).

Although listening to this dude talk about intercourse like he’s had hefty experience is laughably entertaining, it’s the extreme Catholicism that comes out in the man, that always making the highlight reel.  Basically, both of these candidates are about as Christ loving as Pontius pilot when it comes down to it, but us Catholics are known to put up a battle when it comes to religiousness. This is not a race about antics my friends.  None of the candidates run on actual, Christ like platforms of helping the poor, but have more belligerent followers than Jesus after everyone heard about that whole water into wine thing (the most appealing tale to Catholic ears).  And you can’t help but love Santorum, not because of the size of the dog in this fight and his realistically small chance of winning, but for the size of the fight in the dog (Woof woof!)

The beauty of the whole situation is, that in a race between a Mormon and a catholic, the catholic is whipping and crucifying (metaphorically; don’t be ridiculous) this latter-day saint to his sacrimonial death.  Joseph Smith and the entire state of Utah are rolling in their grave when they see Rick Bible thumping his way to the top over Romney one queer smack by the fist of god at a time.  That’s right, the guy who belongs to a religion that is responsible for prop 8 and gay bashing dead soldiers is being out-homophobed by a religion that regularly makes headlines for sex abuse scandals involving priests and young boys and a following that makes up 4/5 of the world’s alcoholics.

But isn’t this how it’s supposed to be? Catholics will always come ahead in the end because of a lack of shame and the insane amount of guilt covered up by the idea that if you say sorry, it’s all cool.  No matter how badly Santorum loses the actual political race and well, votes, Romney will walk away knowing that he got religion sharted in his face harder than santorum producing sex.  Catholics are simply the greatest when it comes to making up bullshit, and pulling out irrelevant doctrines in order to judge and shove dogma down anyone’s throat without adhearing to any kind of rationality. 

This is the religion that made arrogance look cool long before the first frat guy popped his collar and called it a party. Shit, the Old Testament pretty much invented eternal judgment and the ignorance of original sin (Noah’s Arch, for one) to prove to others that you’re not as good as me.  And the most glorious thing of all happens when we nonchelauntly go back to praying when it’s convenient for us and believing that our menial deeds gets us somewhere.  So all you latter-day saints and modern conservatards that make up the Evangelical base can take your fear of Muslims and your closet homosexuality and shove it! Us Catholics have a first class ticket to heaven because we say sorry twice a year and it’s a Friday during Lent and I haven’t eaten meat. 

Westward Bound Part 2: The Love Connection

“Love does not form and constrict, but liberates and gives you the power of freedom to be the person you want to be.”

My very first evening in Portland I read a quote similar to this (much more eloquently sounded, but I can’t recall exact) written on the bathroom chalkboard in the bar that would eventually become a regular hangout.  The appropriateness and perfection of the entire situation cannot be fully grasped by anyone other than me or my girlfriend, Amanda.  Here I am, sitting, drinking in time for happy hour, over two thousand miles away from my native city, and placed across from the table, blissfully soaking in the moment also was the girl that gave me that power and inspired me to make this journey.  I’ve always wanted to move someplace spectacular, but being with her put the possibility into perspective and made it a reality.  I only hope that I had somewhat of a similar influence on her as well.

At this point in our lives, relationship, and journey everything was entirely new and therefore incredibly special to us.  Mainly because it marks the first time we’ve really ever been able to spend a substantial amount of time together.  To give a brief history, Amanda and I started dating while she was in college living about an hour away from home, only getting to see each other on the weekends.  It was distance, it was tough, but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that everything was worth it.  When we were together, there was no fighting, bickering, or game playing, just building a real relationship.

After about six months, she moved back to Indianapolis and abruptly started working retail while I was working regular office hours as an accountant.  More simply put, our hours were opposite of each other; I had weekends off, her weekends were busy as hell, I went to bed at 11, she got off work at 10.  It kinda sucked.  But here we were, months upon months of working overtime and frantically cutting budgets to save money was finally about to pay off.  And let me say that the drive we got to spend together, the ambitious move into a city where we knew no one, and being able to do this together, made out to be an extremely abundant everyday payday.

“What else do you have to do?”  Amanda asked in surprised and slightly frustrated fashion at 9AM on the day we were set to move everything we owned over halfway across the country.  I didn’t even know where to begin to answer that while I looked at my Indianapolis apartment, full of boxes and random crap that lay in no organized fashion after being crammed into just 3 short days of literally packing my life away.  How could two people who didn’t know how far along each other were on one of the biggest days of their lives possibly pack all their belongings into a small U-Haul and move everything they know into a small, downtown apartment? 

“Fuck! I had a million things to do before I can lock up this place and drive this son of a bitch over there” I intelligently uttered to myself instead of out loud.  But luckily I had enough confidence and control of the situation to not panic, and get the apartment ready to move out only an hour after that phone call.  Naturally, everything works out relatively well in these types of situations for us, so I knew that we’d be on our way West before I knew it.  This held true and we left only an hour behind schedule (expected); and we were now set to begin our first major adventure together.

The moment of truth came when we sat in and got comfortable in the truck for our departure from Indy, it was either bask in the glory of love (as I predict we will do) or spend six extremely tense and uncomfortable days together, and try not to think about whose going to have to sleep on the couch for the first month and a half (yes, it that would inevitably be me, and we didn’t have a couch).  My prediction however, would of course come true.  After all, the past two years had been the easiest, happiest, and most fulfilling days I have lived.  Why wouldn’t being so close together be for the best?  Most couples can’t handle that amount of closeness, but the way we get along, as best friends and lovers, it was surely going to be something amazing.

Most people can only embark on such a journey as a single person, but if you’ve ever spent time with us, you’ll know, we definitely can’t be categorized as most people, especially on the couple level.  You have to find someone that can mesh, cope, entertain, and give you a calm sense of euphoria on every level to make it through a tarp flying off just miles away from where we started, a rain storm in a busy St. Louis that was hosting the World Series that same night, ten hours through the god-awful state of Kansas, snow in Colorado and Wyoming, rocky hills in Utah, and the boredom through Southern Idaho in order to fully appreciate the beauty of the drive especially naturally elegant gorge in the state of Oregon. 

Yes, I am one of those fortunate enough to make this journey with my soul mate.  Sitting shotgun the entire drive across 8 of the largest states the beautiful country has to offer was the girl that I fell helplessly for, and then over the course of two years developed a deep understanding of who that person is and what she means to me.  When we met, I never felt like I had it all together, then a few months went by and suddenly there was a balance in my life like never before.  So now I’m driving, gazing at the sights Mother Nature wanted me to see through two long, enduring highways.  This is the greatest thing I’ve ever done, and to spend every last minute of it with my girlfriend made the overall experience that much more beautiful.

~Love

The Business Network

Highlighting the cultural differences between business events and well, everything else.

If you’ve ever stumbled into a tacky hotel bar during some random evening and noticed that the crowd all placed name tags on their chests, wore clothes appropriate for a courtroom, and appeared to be having some kind of boredom contest, then chances are you have walked into “the business crowd”.  When you find yourself hanging out with this type of bunch, getting someone to just crack a smile can feel like a week long chore from hell even though they’re not crunching numbers behind a computer screen. 

I have been fortunate enough to have attended a number of such sanctions through college and now as a graduate and beginner in the white collar work world.  These events come in many shapes and sizes, but 90 percent of the most common ones for a young stud such as myself to attend is a networking happy hour, which is a “social” drinking event for all sorts of lawyers, bankers, accountants, and what not; I reiterate, the definite white collar crowd, trying to promote their body shampoo that they got scammed into selling, and now they have to overcompensate their lost investment, or perhaps just find some ladies. 

Of course, the amount of drinks that can be “socially” consumed highly depends on the person.  I don’t know too many over the age of 23 that seriously intend on drinking past the social stage, it’s just that our vices always seem to get the better of us in a tense environment.  Although the term professional applies to everyone (even a hooker), some sort of business world/office job is indirectly required to pass off to this bunch.  But that seems to be the modern day societal pace; the separation between white and blue collar America, the main difference being the ability of the business associates to disguise the orgy of Satans living inside them by appearing to be less interesting than the super bowl coca cola commercials.

Who do you find yourself having the most fun with? While the blues mix up their gatherings with all sorts of artistic and music events, the white collars treat every gathering as brunch at the country club, making it ok with themselves to once again wear boat shoes and hold their beer by the base of the glass while hovering around a flat screen to watch two teams from a thousand miles away that they have no relation to battle it out.  And they just stand there, occasionally muttering phrases that take a whole three brain cells to comprehend.  “This Miller Lite is pretty good.  Belichick’s strategy is really going to overcompensate for the bronco’s small left line-backer. I like beer.”  Their knowledge of useless sports statistics is the deepest you’re going to tap into them at any event.

So, if you happen to be one that consistently finds yourself surrounded by blue collared workers, artists, journalists, and underachieving geniuses, then an event like such can be worse than a New Jersey tribal tattoo show off.  Obviously, your best bet is to only go to the events that you would end up at naturally.  The one’s where you can wiggle your ass however long you’d like and no one says a word.  The same kinds of events where you can smoke a bong filled with salvia and laced with Viagra while you’re receiving a blow job from a Lebanese hooker.  OK, Might want to skip the salvia, but the point is that you’re going to feel best at the places you feel free.  There’s no tense and judging atmosphere that notices when someone shirt is un-tucked when you hang out with folks like this. 

The Slick Rick business crowd, on the other hand, seems to be forever constipated with the ability to let loose and have a good time.  The worst part about these events is that there sole intention is to create a relaxed atmosphere, but this stand offish horde that’s deathly afraid to try anything different or talk to anyone other than their corporate clones cannot handle such low key ambiance and make everyone feel more uncomfortable than a black guy at a Hootie and the Blowfish concert.  As a result, the longer the party lasts, the harder it is to behave yourself.  And not because you’re the type of person to act out of line, but because the prudish attitudes piercing the energy of this place makes it entirely too difficult to stand around and cope with lack of individual freedom and self-expression.

After a couple of drinks and more than an hour of standing around talking high school basketball and dealing with these lame Janes, you’re deep-seeded yearning desire to see what kind of surprised look their corporate faces show when you crack an extremely offensive joke takes everlasting control of your conscience.  “So, did you hear the one about do-it-yourself abortions?… It’s as easy as one, two, queef!”

Once, you’ve done this the night is basically over, but that’s ok. Because you’re at the same place you started.  At least now, the other attendees recognize your existence.  Sure you might receive some evil stares and not be able to approach a single stranger in the crowd, but the amazing thing is, if there is good in your heart there is always a small percentage of cool, like-minded people in the audience, that found your joke amusing and is forever thankful that you had the balls to shake things up, and piss off the people you’d rather piss on.

-Smokin Chronicles

Shitty DJs Sweepin the Nation

After the club scene started alongside the cocaine craze during the 80s then raved up with the ecstasy wave throughout the 90s, the culture unfortunately culminated with more than a slew of DJs whose music taste sucks worse than their lack of transitioning skills.  How could this possibly happen with over 20 years to improve on the techniques and technology brought forth by the founding fathers of the turntables?  The hand of shit for this record cannot be pinpointed to one particular person or group; there are a lot of people at fault for this tragedy of the turntables.

Many ex-ravers and old school b-boys now in their mid-40s blame the technology that made things cheaper and simpler for somebody to mix some songs together.  However, no one ever listens to any of these dudes, and rightfully so, since they still wear bright blue Adidas jump suits or less respectively black jeans large enough to fit their plumptastic girlfriend inside of.  All while rocking an afro the size of beach ball or spikey green hair and smelling like the schwag they just got done inhaling out of a metal pipe.  But it’s probably a good thing that their words fall on deaf ears, because these arguments are more out of whack than Lindsay Lohan’s probation requirements.  If you walk into one of the bars that DJ Mucho Stinko is spinnin’ at, you’ll quickly realize problem igniting the fire and spreading terrible songs in hip clubs all across the nation is the shit list of people pegging their identity to the DJs playlist.

Just go ahead and take a look at the places that you most often find these awful song mixers, it’s incredibly easy to find such an establishment.  All you have to do is cruise the bar district of any given American city, and search for the trendiest, most upscale looking bar you can find.  If the line outside is filled with Persians then you’ve struck the fake gold they wear on their neck and try to pass off as jewelry. But even if you don’t have the Persian validation, you can just walk to the dance floor (and don’t forget to notice the three desperate girls and their one fat friend they keep around to boost their own confidence,) and take a look at the DJ. Older than 30? Check, and mate.

Sorry to say, his aging physique is not due to an abundance of experience and skill, rather a desperate attempt to stay on top of his game and look like the cool, hip youngster he once was.  He realized his days of Rico Suave were severely numbered unless he did something to significantly improve his game. So he greased up what’s left of his hair, bought a mac, and walked into a bar just like the one he now DJs and said, “hey, I can stand there, give some glares, the occasional fist pump, mean mugs and shoulder shrugs; I can DJ too.”  And since his recognition of late 90s rap is top notch with the likes of Puff Daddy and KC and JoJo in his repertoire, he’ll be the perfect fit.

But to claim it’s all the DJ’s fault is only recognizing the effect and not the cause.  The ass munch on stage playing Chumbawumba would never have had credit if it weren’t for the people in the crowd that categorize these mixes as something fun and danceable.  This is the real reason the reason DJs with less talent than Nickelback are given the authority to choose the playlists for the most popular parties in town.  Exactly who are these people who give the DJ authority to play Hit Me Baby One More Time? Well, the desperate chicks you noticed on your first round to the dance floor that will go down on anyone with past or present popularity are usually the main perpetrators of awful music adoration.  Then, to everyone’s distaste are the bros that notice the girls getting a rise out of Nick Cannon songs, so they start clapping and making obscene gestures to bust their groove so they can obnoxiously inform the crowd of hoochies that they like this shitty song too!

The main beef I have with these DJs however, is that no matter how far I’ve come in recognizing these bars and steering clear of them as much as possible, I eventually wind up at one and I’m forced to listen to Bon Jovi all night.  It’s inevitable.  After all, its where you’ll find all the gold digging girls and it’s much easier to convince them that you own a business and had trouble finding a place to park your helicopter if their boozed up on cosmos and dancing to Janet Jackson.  But even if you’re not out to find snatch, and you just want to have an innocent night out because a couple of your college friends are back in town and you decide to hit it up just like old times.  Then you remember quickly what these old times consisted of, nothing but drunken idiots that can only be tolerated after five whiskeys, on the rocks. 

Next thing you know, you arrive at the old hang out (which is unquestionably one of the types of bars I am currently blasting), and you instantly feel like the only one out of place, while your friends barely seemed to notice that a Pauly D wannabe is playin the remix to ignition as his opener.  All you can do now is stand there pissed off that once again you’ve wasted a good hole in your wallet to listen to someone play Kid Rock in their dance mix, and even more pissed that your friends are dancing to it like clowns on ecstasy, surrounded by obese, fake tanned women and belting out the fact that they want to be a cowboy, babay.

So you have to make a decision on how to rid the humility you’ve put yourself through by being seen with such a big group of dumb asses.  Then it suddenly strikes you, “Oh yeah! The reason I used to enjoy this type of scenery is because I used to get severely wasted!”  For fuck sakes, some of the bars would sell pitchers by the quarter.  Off to the bar you go to order some rum and cokes to get your spirits back into old mode in the most efficient and cost effective way possible.

Next thing you know, the DJ is crunching grooves like Lady Marmalade and you can’t help yourself but scream “Geechi geechi la la ha ha.” You and your friends naturally bust into the Charleston and all your hands gravitate towards one another’s nut sacks.  Then the most inevitable thing of all happens when every girl in the club becomes amazingly attractive (even the one with the massive overbite), and you and all your friends have landed in desperation territory hounding every girl with a short skirt like a pit bull going after a steak.  Even if that means booty droppin to every mid 90s tune that the playlist includes.

And this, my friend, is precisely the reason that awful DJs are commonplace in any city’s bar district.  It’s your fault mother fucker.  It’s because your brain and penis viciously work together to find your genitals a playmate.  The brain knows that whores tend to congregate at these places and they really just don’t know any better than to get excited when the DJs get mmboptastic.  You know the desperation factor with these women and you can’t help but justify dancing to 8675309 in order to get laid.  And even if it doesn’t happen tonight, you’ll be back.  You’ll be at the same bar in a month giving accreditation to djs that only have the NOW! collection on their playlist.  You’re penis can’t stop thing about the half a butt cheek you saw last week and the hopes one of these girls will whisper in your ear “take me home tonight” is enough to keep you coming back for years.  As long as you Don’t stop Believin.

-Smokin Chronicles

The Real Prison Love

Eat you fucking tacos man, cause it’s time to start my very own rip ravin shit haven I call my blog. And eat those god damn tacos we will as I locate the warabouts of thoughts and shitty ideas that are currently trying to violently escape my brain

And what better thoughts to kick around than those of love, which is normally based around feelings and emotions until you start to consider the possibilities of loving someone in prison.  This involves a whole lot more.  And before we jump to conclusions and let the mind race to the bangdeer games that prisoners often play, there are questions that need answered.

Is it hard to love somebody? Sure it is, but nothing exemplifies love like saying I do to someone that was just sentenced to a life in prison without the chance of parole and at most allowed six conjugal visits a year until death do them part.  So, in retrospect it’s pretty easy to love somebody compared to the dedication endured by prison wives.  They’ll make an army wife look like a grade school chick that can only meet up with her boyfriend once a month at the movies and play tonsil hockey in the back row.

Those select few ladies that find themselves with a husband serving up to seventy years were typically put in that situation because something shitty happened.  Whether it’s because their lover got tired of her being fat and decided to get them both addicted to meth and crack to lose weight, he robbed a mcdonalds for three big macs because he wanted her to get fat, or he shot somebody to deliberately go to jail because he was tired of her… because she was fat, they’re all in their circumstance unwillingly.  And ever since then they’ve dedicated their time, money, and effort to keeping a relationship alive that involves permanent distance.

That being said, army wives have it easy compared to these bitches.  Military babes are most oftentimes attractive and certainly bangable by the common bro, and their relationships are the result of two people under the impression that they HAVE to get married in the quickest manner possible.  So, you have these dudes that have committed the next four years to serving the country (thank you for that by the way) and living far, far away from home.  Now, given that situation wouldn’t anyone with a level head want the assurance that they will be coming home to a woman after living with a bunch of ill-mannered young men?

Of course that’s what they want, and there are plenty of women involved in a matrimonial race with their entire sorority to take advantage of their situation.  Next thing you know, they’re marching down the aisle at age 21 just before he heads off to sea, and she feels fulfilled for one day of bliss and he’s got the comfort knowing that he gets to fuck something besides his hand three months out of the year.

Don’t act like you’ve never been browsing facebook and witnessed these wives complaining that they never get to see their husband that they knowingly and lawfully agreed to be with under the precondition that they would be gone half the damn time.  But then on that account I can accuse myself of the same thing; for facebook is a communications tool, and I agree to befriend these people with the understanding that they are annoying, self-involved idiots that think that their uniform lifestyle is remotely unique.

Although this isn’t the case for every married couple in armed forces, I’ve seen it too many times to call it anything less than a stigma.  There are too many people out there getting married for the image of it, for the portrayal that they have found love, when the reality is that they have only found someone seeking the same portrayal.  And you just can’t say that about prison marriages.  There has to be something immensely real for two idiots to stay together when her husband is also the boyfriend of a large inmate named “Shmitts,” making another perfect example of the word fool being used to describe two people in love.      

Somehow, these ladies are unable to let any outside forces shape the way they feel about the one they love and will even believe that person is innocent.  Since she cannot afford much, she has to go without a lawyer, then spend twenty hours a week after working two shitty jobs reading court rulings to find a way to get an appeal, collect bottles and food stamps to eat, and live the rest of her life taking care of the dude’s six illegitimate children even if none are her own.  Allthewhile, she remains faithful and can only get her sex on up to five times a year (depending on the state) while the prison guards watch and high five each other (I mean, I’d do that).

As these wives continue to do this because they are victims of love, army wives are merely victims of Julia Roberts’ movies yet complain twice as loud as anyone else.  The only thing they have to worry about is that their husband will get back from war and realize that she is boring and has fatty thighs or kankles.   But they take care of that by popping out a couple of kids after his first tour of duty.  No one knows what happens when they get done with armed services because no one cares about them nearly as much as they thought.

One thing for certain however, is that prison wives do not give up.  Most couples have the luxury of opting out on a divorce once they realize they’re too shallow to handle unconditional love.  Real lovers would not rush to walk down the aisle because love is something that is done everyday, not just the day of the wedding.  That’s why the prison lovers crank out shit loads of law reviews day in and day out while their husband sits in lock up.  It was never done for any recognition; proof being that society looks down upon them for loving who they love.  The only crime they committed was fate itself.

So ask yourself next time you’re in a relationship, are you more like an army wife/hubby or prison wife/husband? If the answer is army, they you have some reconsidering to do, and if it’s prison, you are probably kidding yourself but what you have is closer to real than many others. 

Real love is a rare thing, but once you have it, you’ll never let it go, because that’s not even a viable option when it’s real.  Love, when stripped down from everything circumstantial and superficial has no other options, just the pursuit of the path of happiness between two lovers.

So I want to take this minute and say that I do love you readers, but definitely in a shallowly army wife way.  If you were sent to prison and could no longer read my blogs, I wouldn’t lose sleep.

And that ends this first edition ramble.  I’ll see you later bitches.  It’s taco time.