The Sack Artist: Jack of All Trades

Even In A Pandemic, We Have Reasons To Be Thankful

11/25/2020

Dear Readers,
As even Jared Leto knows by now, 2020 fucking sucks. There is a pandemic that seems to, somehow, be getting more and more severe by the second. There was a presidential election that tore at the very seems of our nation, causing us all to, rationally or not, question what it means to be an modern-day American. Ruth Bader Ginsburg died. J Crew went bankrupt. No one knows what the fuck happened to season 3 of Succession. I was supposed to take a trip to Spain, a country which might not even exist for much longer and, if it does, may well never let a gigantic, bearded white guy from the middle portion of America through its borders again (unfortunately I do not resemble a person who is stereotypically amenable to mask wearing). Long story short, we’ve all, no matter our circumstances, had a rough go of these past 250-some odd days. 2020 is a year where we all started making plans. And Jesus’ dad started to laugh.

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If You Recline Your Seat On An Airplane, You're A Comfort Terrorist. Here's Why...

2/28/2020

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Dear Readers,
As all of you know—assuming you have had access to the Internet in the last several weeks—our society is at a crossroads. Ever since a certain video of a certain unruly gentleman banging on a ladies reclined airplane seat has populated the twittersphere, our country has faced a conundrum that has torn us apart, and created a dispute more fervent and contentious than anything you will see on a political debate stage, even in polarized times like these. The question at the heart of our shared tension is this: is it OK for you to recline your seat on an airplane? And, in the kind of concise and straightforward manner I am famous for, I can unequivocally tell you that the answer to that query is no.

It is not OK to recline your seat on an airplane. Here’s why.

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Bad Boys For Life Is Everything I Wanted It To Be And More

1/24/2020

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Dear Readers,
No one wants to mess up a good thing. That’s why I won’t let my mom add turkey to my grilled cheese. I mean I like turkey, love it even, but what if, for the first time in recorded history, a piece of dead animal carcass threw off the balance of a sandwich? What if, in an unthinkable twist, a slab of meat actually makes my food taste worse? That is a risk I am not willing to take. I like my grilled cheese sandwiches the way they are. If you change them, you might lessen their greatness. If you alter the formula, even slightly, they might lose their magic forever.

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52 Years Of Waiting... Worth Every Second Of It

6/19/2019

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Dear Readers,
This past Thursday was one of the worst days of my life. I was tired. I was broken. My stomach was trying its absolute hardest to void all its contents so it could then, very unceremoniously, murder itself. I was sick and hungover and dying, right there, right in a desk chair that was, of course, situated in an open office, just so everyone could watch my body as it decayed. Around 1 PM I left work for a run through Jack In The Box, so I could consume an unhealthy amount of tacos I KNEW my digestive system would be unable to process, and a quick nap at home. I returned to the office later that afternoon a skeleton. My life had become an unending cycle of physical pain and psychological torment. It sucked. It was worth every second of it. Because, finally, the Blues had brought home the Stanley Cup.

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Anyway You Slice It St. Louis, Ignore The #BagelHate

3/29/2019

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Dear Readers,
As all of you know—assuming you have ever done things like read a word of this blog or heard me speak a word in public—I unabashedly love everything about my hometown. I love our processed cheese (although all cheese is processed, but whatevs). I love our macroly brewed beer. I love the late, great, undead rapper Nelly more than I love my yet to be conceived children. Basically, what I am trying to say is that, in my completely unbiased opinion, St. Louis is the greatest city on Earth. If you disagree in even the subtlest of ways, I am going to be forced to throw down in verbal fisticuffs against you. You give my city shit, and I am going to come right back at you with everything my limited intellectual capacity has to offer in what will certainly be a just semi-articulate attempt to tear your undeniably inaccurate opinion to shreds.

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A Grown Man Barely Moved For 29 Hours. This Is His Story...

3/15/2019

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Dear Readers,
Four things. A few short weeks ago my wife went out of town for a weekend, and before she left gave me a list of things she’d like me to accomplish around the house (oh yeah, I bought a house…) while she was gone. That list was composed of four things. One was to hit some buttons on the thermostat so that I knew how to set a “heating schedule.” Another was to literally replace a single light bulb. The other two tasks were probably more difficult. I’m not sure. I don’t remember what they are. Either way, this list appeared imminently achievable when it was presented to me. My wife, being the super understanding and patient person that she is (don’t at me), even told me to pace myself. She was going out of town the weekend after this one as well, and said she didn’t expect me to get all four of the enumerated items on her list done before she came back from her first trip. She just wanted me to make some progress. She just wanted me to like, you know, start.

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As You Grow Older You Hopefully Grow Wiser Too (Like Benjamin Button In Reverse)

2/8/2019

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Dear Readers,
As many of you know—assuming you met me, or read this blog, before my, say, 28th birthday, aka the rough point and time in my life when I realized it was possible for a grownish man with my voluminous intellect and unwavering moral compass to potentially, you know, be wrong about stuff—I used to be a different person than I was today. I was bolder, and rasher, and more bombastic. I was even less willing and able to see the other side of an argument. At one point, about a year ago, I hugged my older brother as a way of thanking him for planning my bachelor party and ever came close to saying the words” I loved you” out loud in his direction, before I realized how embarrassing such an intense emotional outburst would be. 10 years earlier, I had told one person that I loved them. And that was Marshall Faulk. Through a tweet. That for many different reasons, has since been deleted.

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I Bought A House. And It Was Terrifying...

12/21/2018

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Dear Readers,
As some of you may know and others may not—if you’re a part of the latter group, please don’t take that lack of knowledge to mean that you and I are not friends, although there’s a good chance that we haven’t talked in many months and my iPhone has therefore automatically deleted your phone number and caused me to instantly forget everything about you—my wife and I closed on a house last week. This is a big step in my adult development, and as such it was met with a flurry of emotions that have swirled around inside me. Elation. Despair. Satisfaction. Anxiety. Apprehension. For most people buying a house is nothing but a good thing. For me, it was an amazing thing wrapped around something else, something that caused me to occasionally become so uptight and fidgety that I’d walk into the bathroom at work and stare at myself in the mirror, wondering what was causing my body to shake

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If You Believe In Our Nation's Children, Then Starting Asking Them To Tell A Joke On Halloween

10/31/2018

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Dear Readers,
As all of you obviously know—because you are all capable of doing things like reading a calendar and wearing your usual plaid shirt to work while claiming to have dressed up as the “Bounty Paper Towel Man”—today is Halloween, an undeniably important day in the life of just about any child in these United States. When I was a child, I know that it was an important day in mine. I’d work on my routine for weeks, walking around the house wearing my costume and carrying an empty pillow case and knocking on random doors, before opening them myself and imagining one of neighbors on the other side. Then I’d launch into my joke: “where does dracula like to water ski…” I’d say to the air, pausing for way too short a period of time before continuing. “Lake Eeeeeerie.” In my mind’s eye, I could see all my adult neighbors as they lit up in uproarious laughter that was not at all forced before handing me a full sized Twix bar (the only candy with a cookie crunch) and looking down at me with a face full of pride.

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31 Years On Earth... And 6ish Dead Dreams

8/17/2018

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Dear Readers,
As all of you know—either because you are a decent person with a kind heart who wrote the letters HBD on my Facebook wall a few short weeks ago or because you are a comparatively shitty person who is now reading these words and realizing that you don’t care about one of the most important people in your life, aka me, at all—I recently celebrated a birthday. That’s right ladies and gents I am now, officially, 31 years of age. At least that’s what my mom tells me. And while I cannot unequivocally prove how old I am since I have never seen my long-form birth certificate, what I can say as a youngish, white dude who may or may not have been born in Kenya is that birthdays still serve as sort of mile-makers in my life. Birthdays cause me to be very nostalgic.

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