5 posts tagged “ben martini”
What websites do you visit every day?
Submitted by Chez Michelle.
What's one of your favorite quotes?
Submitted by Georgie-boy.
"I'm sorry, but if you don't have Ben Martini's *New & Improved* Happy Hour on your feed reader, then you should be punched in the face and subjected to repeated viewings of Forest Gump. And that's all I have to say about that."
Bill Clinton
My head. My tummy. My sprained lower intestine. Now my head, again. My . . . never mind.
I went to the annual Christmas party last night thrown by The Person Who Pays Me. She throws quite the event. Last year I overdid it a little. I don't know if it's possible to asphyxiate from too much prime rib. But, I gave it my best shot anyway. This year I decided not to go that route. I was determined to go to the party, eat sensibly, and leave at a decent hour. I made myself promise. Unfortunately, I didn't make myself promise anything about drinking.
I ate very little at the party. I only had about three pints of belgian ale. No more than three or ten glasses of pinot noir. And, of course, you can't leave a Christmas party without doing at least a couple of car bombs. Then it was 10:30 and I was ready to head home. I ran to my apartment as fast as my little legs could carry me (which is faster than you might think) and I tucked myself into bed. I slept like an evil angel.
The first thing that went wrong today is that I woke up. The ebb and flow of nausea crept into my stomach, and spread further through my body with each successive wave. I could feel the pulse of nausea in my toes. I could feel it in my eyes. Along with the occassional flash of cold, numbness in my chest. It only gets worse from there, but you know what I'm talking about. I was the captain of a ship that had sprung too many leaks. Capsized by my own hubris.
I've spent my whole life abusing my body. I'm a professional. I know what I'm doing. I've finally become a master of something, and now it turns on me. That makes me sad. The Ben Martini of a year ago would have been up at 5:30 AM ready to drink coffee and instigate conflict. Hell, what do I mean "would have"? Now this happens.
I think it must be God. He wants a piece of me.
During my miserable thrashings and moaning, I thought about asking God to make it stop. Then I thought about my post A Mental Delusion Deconstructed, and I figured that I was screwed. He's been after me for a while anyway. He knows that I don't trust him. I have a hard time trusting anyone who wants me to get on my knees. Unless they ask REALLY nice. I don't even kneel when emptying my guts into the toilet. I squat. I refuse to kneel to that toilet! That toilet is beneath me (no pun intended, seriously). I'll lean my head against the cool sink, but not the toilet. That toilet can kiss my ass (again, not intended). Speaking of "calling my friend Ralph," I think the most horrible part are the noises that I make. Spacecase can attest to the fact that it sounds somewhat like a sumo wrestler and a pig having an argument. It even freaks me out. Just awful.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. I was thrashing and moaning and couldn't call God because he hates me.
I thought it was best to come up with another god who didn't have me on their shit list yet. It was hard doing, but I managed to find one. Njord! The Norse god of wind. Considering how much wind I put out, I figured he would owe me. But he ignored my pleas. Njord, that fucker.
I seem to be doing much better now. I had some chicken soup and Gatorade. I understand that I'm not the youngster that I used to be. I've learned my lesson for good this time. No more abusing my body. Tonight, I'm going to try and stay on a diet of strictly cheese and salt. Until I'm completely recovered.
Too hot. Can't think. Most my sentences . . . less than four words. "Hot. No talk now." Like that.
I keep overhearing people on the train saying, "The worst thing about this heat is . . . ." Then they go on to say it's the humidity, or it's all the sweating, or what have you. The worst thing about the heat is the heat. It just sucks. Followed a close second by short tempers. This time of year, everyone is a dick. We're all hot, sweaty, and thoroughly disgusted with each other. We're pressed up against one another on trains, buses, in elevators. Forced to wear long pants for our jobs. The best shows are in reruns. Something has to give.
I go to work this morning, pour myself a glass of cold water, and the admin asst asks, "Why do you look so stressed?" I say, "Because It's hot." She replies, "It's gonna be hotter than that in the place you're going to after you die." Damn. (In her defense, she lives on the top floor of a 4 flat walk-up without air conditioning.)
I look at the news. Israel continues to lay the Old Testament smackdown on Lebanon. I shake my head, wondering what it will take to one day bring stability to the Middle East. (You know, other than larger countries not invading them.) And then it came to me, in two magic words: Air Conditioning. There needs to be a lot more air conditioning. And water parks. Now, hear me out. I know it's a lot more complicated than that. I'm not saying that this would automatically cure all hostillities. BUT . . . over time . . . I bet attitudes might relax significantly if people could spend more time in front of air conditioners and on water slides. We should also drop snow on them. Load up some planes and drop big, landfill-sized quantities of pure, Alaskan snow. We've been analyzing the situation all wrong. It has nothing to do with religious differences. That's just the type of shit people get hung up on when they're hot and they can't think straight. Everyone wants Israel, not because of Palastine, but because Israel has all the swimming pools and central air. There would be no more conflict if the nations of the world would band together, pool their money, and turn the whole Middle East into a luxory resort. We could all help out. We could have bake sales and stuff. Sell some magazine subscriptions, no big deal. I'd take a day off for that.
I know I need to think this out a little more, but I'm telling you there's something there.
Well, this is my blog. My name is Ben Martini. I live in Chicago.
I had a great post going yesterday. It was funny, informative, noble, with just the correct amount of humility. It made me proud to be me. Then the cat jumped up on the keyboard and made it all disappear. I tried to retrieve it, but then the whole site went down. (Which I also blame on Zelda the cat, who was sending out some funky psychic emissions last night.) Anyway, it seemed like too much work to type over, so I just went and had a beer instead.
The most notable thing about yesterday was that I finally tried Chubby Wieners. Let me clarify by adding that Chubby Wieners is a hot dog stand that just opened off the brown line stop at Western. Nearly hidden under the L tracks, I predict it will soon become Lincoln Square's best kept, dirty little secret. They serve up a mean chilli dog, which is not easy to find in Chicago. Most places specialize in your standard "Chicago" dog, but you don't always feel like having a salad on your wiener. Finding a quality chilli dog is a rare, beautiful thing. Hot dogs are under five bucks, and come with a generous helping of beer-battered fries. If you're in the mood for a polish, but don't want it grilled, they will deep fry it for you. And for $250 you can get a chubby wiener with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. Just in case you need a little something extra to help take the edge off. (See my photo collection, "Scary Things That I Eat," for a glimpse of Chubby's mascot.)
Okay, I think I'm done here. In the words of Stan Lee, 'Nuff Said.
