Looking down on oneself is one thing, and if we look at the wives and children of successful men, we find it’s as normal as taking a hyperactive child to McDonald’s. “Why take them to McDonald’s,” you ask? Because fat food makes their little brains sleep. Anyway. Self-hatred. It is a necessity for some, and a luxury for others. For me it is like chocolate. It is there and available, but I’m only likely to crave it a couple times a year. And then I am usually let down.

Normally I wouldn’t ponder my own level of loathing in the privacy shroud that is Dank, yet some things have gone down lately that I am ashamed of. Also, today I ate lunch at this little place near Loyola and they played the same three Bob Marley songs on repeat for the entire half hour that I was there. According to my Rastafarian brother (and an ad-ravaged lyrics website), I’m the only one that can emancipate myself from mental slavery.

Emancipate myself from mental slavery.
Emancipate myself from mental slavery.
Emancipate myself from mental slavery.
Emancipate myself from mental slavery.
You get the idea.

I sail to your shore as an immigrant from the Land of Desire to Profit from Ilk. My stay on Ilk was short-lived, but my time there was eventful and fraught with indulgence and hedonism. I purposely didn’t care when the natives mistook me as their king and worshiped me.

When they sacrificed a Princess to me, I looked the other way.

I am sorry for the calendar I made that reflects various times the Ilk residents will attempt to profit from a controversial triple-homicide.

When they offered starving children golf swing tips, I pretended to be asleep.

I apologize to anyone that gives in to deceptive copy combined with the promise that God might care (it’s in there) about bettering a golf swing.

When they set the creature before me that they’d determined to be the “missing link” between humans and apes, I held a press conference and neither confirmed nor denied their findings.

I am regretful that the eyes are huge and burnt orange, and I am sorry that a pre-emptive strike wasn’t taken against this past, present, and future molester.

I do feel better. And I’m taking some solace in the fact that the next time a Looney Tunes character exclaims “Oh, the humanity!” I’ll be right there with ‘em.

I think it’s messed up that the sun can give you cancer.  Isn’t that kinda like dirt or clouds, flowers, trees or the wind giving you cancer?  You ask any kid to draw you a picture of a house or a boat and they will undoubtedly put the sun up in the corner of their drawing, and yet it causes cancer.  It just doesn’t fit.

You also can’t look at the sun.  Say what you will about cigarettes, asbestos and obesity, at least you can look at those things and not go blind.

Think about it too much and you’ll start questioning your faith.  I mean for 12 hours every day there is a giant carcinogen in the sky that can render you sightless, and yet without it we’d all be dead.

"I'm kind of an asshole..."

Like every self-respecting person in this hemisphere, I run a network of sports podcasts. It is a fun endeavor, but also something of a managerial nightmare because it’s 30 websites, and because any Jets fan that cares enough to host a podcast on the Jets is typically a louse.

Anyway, obviously from time to time our hosts miss a few shows or take a break from their hosting duties. I received this from one of our baseball podcasters 5 minutes ago. Mind you, this is the slowest part of the baseball offseason:

Lou,

Sam

Wow. I’ve considered how I should respond while writing out this post, and I think I’ve arrived at this:

Sam,

Lou