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Archives: Jan 2013

I’m not a winner, but I can pretend

Duluth News-Tribune columnist Sam Cook and I have a bet. Whichever of us gets the fewest Best of the Northland votes has to remove his pants outside City Hall and and try to get all the way into Mayor Donny Ness’ office without being arrested. If that person is able to not only enter Ness’ office, but also rub their scantily clothed buttocks against the back of the mayor’s neck, then all votes are erased and that person is crowned the true king of the Northland columnists.

So clearly I’ll be winning either way. I’m not sure why Cook even took the bet. He knows I’ll get my butt on that man, even if it takes me 100 tries.

For those of you unfamiliar with Best of the Northland, allow me to enlighten you. Every year, the Reader Weekly lets the three people who actually read this toilet bomb of a newspaper vote 100 times each for their favorite things in town. Favorite restaurant, favorite strip club, favorite bath salts retailer, favorite Depeche Mode album to buy on vinyl at Electric Fetus and never listen to, favorite place to attempt to fill an entire growler with your own vomit, etc.

Put that thing away, lady

Oh, I see. Martin Luther King Jr Day just ended, so you think it’s okay to put up Valentine’s Day decorations. You think it’s okay to play Lionel Richie songs that are not titled “Dancing on the Ceiling”. Well, it’s not okay and you’re a filthy bastard.

Valentine’s Day is the most depressing day of the year. A day celebrating the horrid, psyche destroying emotion of love? Why not make a holiday celebrating the Holocaust while you’re at it? Or a holiday celebrating some drunk in Superior, WI getting his fortieth DUI. Hey everyone, it’s Herb day! Let’s put up some decorations highlighting the time Herb ran over those kids. Aw, look at how cute that is! I know, right? I got it on sale at Walgreens!

For men, Valentine’s Day is the worst. It’s mainly a tedious reminder that ladies want things. You’d think a firm handshake before leaving for work each morning would suffice as a token of our affection, but it’s not. Ladies want a hug. They want chocolates and flowers. They want a card with a handwritten message inside. Handwritten! It’s preposterous.

What to do when you hate me

I love hate. I love it more than almost anything in the world. Ice cream, adorable puppies, telephones that look like bananas, hardcore German pornography. I love hate more than all of these things combined. Hate is a fun hobby, a great way to blow off steam, a tool for bonding with other dickbags and a delightful way to pass the time when you’re bored.

Why do you think celebrity gossip blogs are so popular? Because people love to hate. Hating on others who are more successful than us is practically a national pastime. But people love to hate dirtbags, too. What do Honey Boo Boo, the Westboro Baptist Church and this column have in common? They only continue to thrive because people hate them. The people who hate me the most are my most faithful readers. They read every week just to discover new things to hate about me. My douchebaggery thrives because our culture’s passion for hate knows no bounds. Hate has gone mainstream. God bless our toilet society!

Hate can also be used for horrible things like genocide, but that’s a different kind of hate. I’m talking about the fun, harmless kind of hate, like urinating on a famous stone in Ireland that tourists like to kiss for luck, or inventing a special kind of fat-free potato chip that also gives people life-altering diarrhea.

An expert’s guide to bears

Every day, nearly 1.3 million Minnesotans are eaten by bears. It’s a fact. A park ranger told me. Which park ranger? Um . . . Elfonso. No, I don’t know his last name. Where did I meet a park ranger in Minnesota named Elfonso? Why don’t you go to hell? I’m telling a story here.

Fact: Bears are dicks. They eat your sandwiches. They steal honey from your personal beehives. They flirt with your wife. They poop in the forest, even when county records clearly show that you own that part of the forest. They don’t have any damn respect for this society we’ve painstakingly built. Manners! Rules! Polite nodding when others are telling boring stories! Bears care for none of these things, because bears are assholes.

Can you recall a single time that a bear has done something nice for you? Has a bear ever given you a ride home from work in their car, or returned a book to you in decent condition? When you call a bear, do they answer or does it go straight to voicemail after, like, two rings? Do the Christmas cards you receive from bears have personal notes handwritten inside of them, or are they just generic “photo cards” of the bear’s family? I think we all know the answers to these questions. Bears are jerks.

Cruiseing at the Southdale Mall Cineplex

The theater smelled like an unkempt nursing home, as if a bomb filled with baby powder and mothballs had exploded. This stench of elderly lady perfume – sprayed until the owner’s dulled senses could recognize its presence – burned my nostrils, causing my left eye to blink involuntarily. I gulped a mouthful of air and exhaled slowly, trying to breathe while bypassing my sense of smell completely.

The woman in the row in front of me, so old that vultures had likely followed her to the theater entrance, turned to her equally ancient husband and shouted in his ear.

“This is a Tom Cruise movie!” she barked at him, phrasing the statement like a question.

“What?” he shouted back, his eyes rolling back into his head as if he’d been unconscious for the past several minutes.

“This is a Tom Cruise movie!” the woman shouted again.

“Okay,” he said, clearly too deaf to understand a word she was saying.

“I like him,” she continued, “He gets me riled up.”