Song of the Day (3/17/2018)

Today’s song of the day is Night’s On Fire by David Nail. Country song but pretty mainstream and solid.

So. Stormy Daniels. Turning out to be a real headache for Donald Trump of the East and his team of winged monkeys. There’s a real threat that she’s going to come out and actually admit that she had sexual relations with Trump. That said, if Hillary were elected, we would’ve been similarly dismayed had Slick Willy come out and actually admit that he has had sexual relations with Hillary.

This Stormy business will all blow over in time. Knowing that Trump was there first, how many more guys can be willing to tongue punch her fart box? Much like the Apple iWatch, she’ll eventually be forgotten as the channels dry up and she finds herself sliding around too few fists.

Which brings me to my next point – Happy (belated) International Women’s Day (two Thursdays ago)! There’s a new female in my office who began earlier that week and we hired her as we’re absolutely swamped with projects and client mandates. While us guys were at the office until 1am that Thursday for an upcoming presentation, she chose to leave and head home slightly before 7pm, no shit. Coincidentally enough, that’s exactly 77% of the day! A HORSE, A HORSE, MY KINGDOM FOR A HORSE!!! Find me the female analyst who stays late into the evening, toiling away on the keyboard to perfect that presentation. Find me the female analyst who foregoes personal relationships and hobbies to put the client above all else. Which female analyst will take this message and deliver it to Garcia?

Well, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, and I’m off to buy some Irish Cod filets to tenderize and slow-cook. In turns out, much like Aziz Ansari, I like home cooking oysters and mussels in my own kitchen, only he ultimately found a clam he couldn’t crack.

Well I’m off to take a shit before running to the seafood market. I had an appointment so I need someone to tell them I’m running behind, but not that I have a runny behind!



Random Bidtits (3/3/2018) and Article on Recycling

First off. I saw a poster for “Hamilton.” Am I the only person on Earth who didn’t realize our founding father was black?

Also, very few of you will know that Chris Kennedy, son of Bobby Kennedy, is running for Governator of Illinois. But did you know that he did a brief cameo in the South Park series as those lovable Hardy Boys?




Another amusing article today. I’m a huge fan of recycling and I often go out of my way to move the cans and bottles from people’s garbage to their recycling bins when leaving the office at night. But I love this guy’s bitter musings. It’s from Bloomberg’s The Daily Grind of Recycling.

Warm feelings about saving the planet have given way to the drudgery of sorting and rinsing and nagging from the government.

The other day, I had an epiphany: If recycling were not required by law, I probably wouldn’t bother.

Okay, I’m a horrible person. But bear with me. In the wake of a blizzard, I was rolling the huge town-provided recycling bin to the curb for pickup. Downhill. Through the snow. On a steep driveway, imprecisely plowed. The walk was treacherous. I slipped once or twice.

And I began to wonder what I was doing.

Recycling is supposed to produce a warm we’re-in-this-together glow, as we join hands in solidarity to save the planet. Small children practice it in school as a sacred ritual of the secular religion. For years now, I’ve been able to smile inwardly at the knowledge that along with my neighbors, I’m doing the right thing.

Lately, however, recycling doesn’t feel like ritual. It’s just work. A lot of work. Sometimes a lot of hard work.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m old enough to have been excited about the original Earth Day in 1970. I remember smiling high schoolers circulating through the cafeteria with boxes and bags to collect what we would now call recyclables. I seem to recall doing a bit of circulating myself. Back then it was fun. One had the sense of doing good through the process of persuading others to do good. There was no coercion. There was not even much peer pressure. Just volunteers encouraging people to turn over what they were going to discard anyway.

Now it’s law; it’s been the law so long that today’s young people cannot remember when it wasn’t. And with each passing season, the rules seem to grow more complicated. My wife and I are constantly getting online warnings (and paper flyers) from our Connecticut town, usually couched in a tone somehow contriving to suggest that we residents aren’t quite up to the mark: Too many of you are including plastic bags. Or polystyrene. Too many of you are leaving your boxes unbroken. Or broken but with food clinging to the cardboard.

There’s so much to remember. If bottle caps are loose, keep them out of the recycling bin. (That’s what the state decrees, anyway; my town says caps are fine.) Don’t just rinse your aluminum cans but dry them too. (Water is bad.) As to those plastic bags that don’t go in the bin, don’t toss them in the trash either, but find a place that accepts them and drop them off there. Or better still — we are told — buy reusable bags. Sure, serious researchers consider them carriers of germs and infection. But that’s okay. Just wash them regularly. (More work.) Oh, and take your wire coat hangers back to the dry cleaners.

People who imagine that these tasks take no investment of time must not be terribly busy. But if we don’t perform this important labor for free (so we are scolded sternly), someone else will have to be paid to do it. That will only raise costs. In other words, the only way to make recycling economically viable is to constantly pile more work atop those of us who only live here.

Not that recycling seems to be viable — not beyond aluminum cans and plastics number 1 and 2. The rest of it can’t be processed at a profit. (Glass bottles and jars present a particular challenge.) As it turns out, much of the more valuable stuff can’t be processed at a profit either. Not unless the rest of us do a lot of the labor.

This perhaps is part of the problem. When we consumers are busy stacking the wire hangers and screwing the caps tightly onto the plastic bottles and examining cardboard for the tiniest traces of food, we’re not laboring in the first instance to improve the environment. We’re laboring so that private companies can make a profit — companies hired by localities to handle recycling, and unable to figure out any way to stay in business except by conscripting householders. Imagine an auto repair shop announcing that in order to keep prices low, customers will henceforth be required to do some of the work on their cars. Business would dry up overnight.

I’m not against recycling. I understand that if the practice isn’t mandatory, a lot of people won’t bother. We also know that curbside pickup increases the likelihood of compliance, especially among those for whom a few cents deposit on a bottle constitutes a pittance. And in any case kitchen sorting is, we might say, a transitional technology. Robot sorters are improving rapidly, and may soon be able to pick the bad stuff out of the single recycling stream faster and more accurately than humans ever could.

In the meantime, what began nearly half a century back as a movement among happy optimists has become like too much else to which government turns its attention: heavy-handed, coercive, distant and thick with detailed rules. Recycling may be important, but it’s no longer romantic. It’s not fun. Nowadays, recycling isn’t solidarity. It’s ritualistic drudgery.

Still, fear not. I have every intention of playing my part. Until the arrival of the sorting robots, I’ll go on laboring in the kitchen and garage to keep recyclables separate and pristine. I’ll keep telling myself that I’m helping to save the planet, even when in actual fact I’m contributing my free labor to waste management companies that would be unprofitable if they had to pay for my services.

Is there compensation? Sure. But it’s no longer the warm glow that comes from the knowledge that I’m doing the right thing; it’s the single stream of reminders from my town that I’m doing the right thing all wrong.


Huma Mahmood Abedin Moonlighting in Chicago?

Huma Mahmood Abedin. Or as you may know her, “Huma” (no relation to fellow A-list star and literal witness to unworldly keen depth perception, Uma Thurman).

No, Huma didn’t take her husband’s last name. Yes, Huma’s middle name reminds you of that particular appendage that shafted her political career. And much like her husband, Carlos Peligro, she’s been popping out in unexpected places. I think I found her in Chicago, here:

Huma mustafa changed her name.

Many of you don’t know this, but prior to being Vice Chair of Nasty Hillary’s 2016 campaign, Huma was Secretary Clinton’s Chief of Staff, a designation she couldn’t maintain with Carlos.

Here’s where I sign off and give you a nod of the head and a wink of the eye but I think Carlos Peligro already did that in those (alleged) photos.


Song of the Day (2/28/2018)

Today, White House Communications Director Hope Hicks decided to take a knee and The Donald now needs to maneuver his staff until he can fill her hole. As such, today’s song of the day is Wild Thing by Tone-Loc.

Oh boy, this train car is NOT going to like what I had for lunch today. No worries, it’s not any worse than the girl who just hopped on in her workout gear. I could smell this girl’s clam sauce three cars over.

To the capital markets!

– DD


Song of the Day (2/26/2018)

It’s a good one! In fact, it’s an absolutely fantastic song. It’s Sedona by Houndmouth. Give it a try. Now, some random photos to get your juices flowing.

And finally, to quote Tobias while eating at Burger King with Carl Weathers, “oh sure, as long as you don’t bring attention to it”:

Young, self interested, and confidence starved. Now in 57 flavors.

One more thing, speaking of sauces, I tried a new hot sauce last week and I’m enamored. It’s from Mexico and I picked some up while on a trip near the wall…on the good side! It’s Black Label Reserve Chile Habanero by my bad hombres at El Yucateco. It’s black in color and has a robust, smoky wood flavor and isn’t as hot on the Scoville Scale as the name and color would suggest. Pick up a bottle at your local Trader Jose’s or Walmex today.

I wonder if this is what Nasty Hillary carries in her purse while traveling with Hispanic constituents.


Song of the Day (2/18/2018)

Came across this weather report this week:

And just like the temperate outside, I’m feeling 22! Today’s song of the day is 22 by Taylor Swift. Positive, uplifting, catchy – just overlook the fact that the artist looks like a plastic sex doll with a VERY healthy dose of makeup caked on. How is that much makeup a good look?!?

Some big news in the investigation of Russian meddling in the U.S. elections. I understand that there may have been “NO COLLUSION” with the trump administration, but you can’t tell me Russia’s tactics didn’t influence the outcome. So this gives me an idea – elections for the Supreme People’s Assembly in North Korea are held every five years, the last being held in 2014. Wouldn’t it be simple enough to hire Vlad’s troll farm, create a number of fake profiles on North Korea’s various social media platforms, and run a smear campaign against Lil’ Rocket Man? We’ll pick one of his various challengers, connect with local, politically-charged organizers, and launch grassroots rallies to undermine LRM’s oppressive totalitarian regime. No problem.

Separately, a buddy sent me the following and I absolutely love it:

Next, a bad hombre sent me the following link: You Can Now Buy a Chocolate Mold of Your Partner’s Anus, Just in Time for the Holidays. Article below:

If you’re looking for something to say, “I love you, happy holidays!!” why not get a chocolate mold of your anus and gift it to your boo? Or, grab a mold of your significant other’s behind to show them just how much you adore their poop shoot. While it seems a bit crazy, and a bit #fakenews, this is the real deal, y’all. If you’re as obsessed with your partner’s ass as they are with yours, show them the right way by making it edible. Edible Anus, a company that specializes in – you guessed it – edible anus’, will send you a box of three chocolate butts for only $10. Magnus Irvin, the owner of Edible Anus, is clearly onto something here.

Irvin came up with this idea in 2006 when he was working on an art exhibit featuring several different color chocolate anus’ (you think he has a type?). He used his own anus apparently, and the product came out a bit messy. But, he came up with the idea to mold other people’s butts and sell them for profit. Even better.

When creating the mold, you’ll have to sit in a bit of an awkward position (obviously), but it’s all worth it for art and glory, am I right? If you’re not into chocolate and think it’s a bit too much like poop coming out of your anus, you can splurge and get your significant other a bronze or silver replica of your anus.

Don’t worry, it will only run you about $500 for them – a perfect price to pay for a beautiful booty-hole. People on Twitter were both amazed and dumbfounded that this is an actual business, but hey, to each their own.

Word to the wise? Don’t have beans the day before your mold appointment. Just sayin’.